


Come Home, My Better Half

by songsofthespring



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aka John doesn't die, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Character Death Fix, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Found Family, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, John and Eliza are platonic soulmates, M/M, Multi, Platonic Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Timeline What Timeline, Written with the musical characters in mind but set in the historical time period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-19 01:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15499134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songsofthespring/pseuds/songsofthespring
Summary: In the midst of the revolutionary war, one Alexander Hamilton finds both of his soulmates, and dreams of a better future. In 1782, John Laurens goes into battle and is reported killed in action. Except, this time, he wakes up.Or, an Elams soulmate AU.





	1. Someone I've Been Missing

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is incredibly self indulgent but I hope you all enjoy reading it all the same. 
> 
> Special thanks to Nico, one of my dearest friend, and the reason this fic exists. 
> 
> The title and the chapter titles come from "Come Home" by OneRepublic, which is pretty much the theme song of this fic.

The ocean called to Alexander the moment he was born. He came into the world, like all children, with a soulmate tattoo, a mark. Or, more accurately, two marks. It wasn't uncommon to have multiple tattoos, though it was a little more unusual that both came in with the dark lines of romantic marks. What was truly bizarre to the other children and especially to the adults in Nevis was that Alexander Hamilton’s tattoos didn't belong to any of the children on the island. Most of the local children had found their matching marks relatively early on, but not Alex. His tattoos, a elegantly curling feather on his wrist and a stately yet simple lighthouse on his chest, don't belong to any of the other children on the island.

“You have a future beyond the waves, far out there somewhere,” his mother used to tell him, with a far-away smile. “You're so lucky, Alexander, to have two people who will love and cherish you.”

But Alex wasn't naive enough to accept that as anything more than wishful thinking for long. He never saw his mother’s tattoo, but when his father left his mother when Alex was nine, the idea of a destined soulmate began to seem ridiculous and contrived. Did his mother not have a soulmate? Clearly his father wasn't the one for her. Or worse, Alex thought, when he regained consciousness and found out his mother never would, had she died without ever meeting the other half of her soul at all? His mother had deserved so much more.

He never let go of the idea of leaving the Caribbean, but his focus was not on the people he’d meet there. His entire being was focused on survival, consumed by it. If there were two people out there that were meant for him, they would have to catch up to him, because he wasn’t going to be sitting around waiting for them.

Still, when he stepped onto dry land after a long and arduous voyage and felt American soil under his feet for the first time, he couldn’t help but wonder if they were here, if by coming to America he’d come this much closer to two fateful meetings. The thought was ever present at first, and every first meeting, he’d half expect to feel something, some sign that he’d found his soulmate. But that was naive; America was huge and there were so many people there over great swathes of land. The chances of bumping into one of his soulmates by chance was astronomically low.

College and then the war were welcome distractions. Regardless of soulmates, Alexander Hamilton would someday be a household name, and Alex relished his first opportunity to make his mark on the country he already thought of as his. There was no room for distractions or idle thoughts and Washington’s policy that everyone hide their marks from view cemented this. Alex’s soulmates would just have to wait. Unless, of course, they found reason to come to him.

\---

John Laurens may come from a respectable wealthy Southern family, but John is not the dutiful son his father wanted him to be. He'd done his due diligence and gotten his law degree, but his father couldn't prevent him from taking up arms and joining the revolution. It would look rather poorly for a delegate of the continental congress to forbid his son from fighting after all.

John had attempted to reassure his father in his letters with his latest news; namely, that John would be serving as a volunteer aide de camp to General Washington, so much more of his time will be spent behind a desk. John likes to imagine it’s the skill and enthusiasm he’s shown on the battlefield that’s responsible for this promotion, but he has a feeling it’s more to do with his father’s recommendation. But of course, despite his best efforts, John’s father cannot prevent him from fighting. John has been formulating a plan of action for forming the first black battalion and he wants to lead them into battle personally, not hide behind the shield of ink and parchment. For the first time, at twenty-three years of age, he'll finally have the chance to do what he wants without his father interfering. Much.

Of course, General Washington will be giving him orders now, but John is confident that Washington will see sense. Every able-bodied man is needed and John doesn't believe Washington to be a foolish enough man to deny John the chance to fight out of deference to John’s father.

He's been riding high on his new freedom and he’s anxious about meeting General Washington in the morning. He doesn’t need to report tonight, but adrenaline would make it impossible for him to sleep now. That's his excuse for entering the crowded Market Street Tavern for a beer or two.

John spends most of his time there sidled away by himself in the corner. The environment of the tavern is conducive to this. It’s dim, lit only by candlelight and men are either conversing in groups or silently observing the rowdier men, as John is. Ordinarily, he’d be more prone to conversation, but he doesn’t know any of the men here, and his nerves are such that he feels he needs some time alone to gather himself before he presents himself to General Washington on the morrow.

It’s when John is working on his third beer that he catches sight of a man about his own age near the center of the room. He's gesturing animatedly and chatting to a group of several people, who are mostly smiling, nodding, and occasionally getting a word in edgewise. He's got long hair tied back in a queue, an expressive face, and he carries himself like a man who isn't afraid to speak his mind. His uniform looks sharp on him, though it's not in the best condition; clearly, he's been serving a while. He's also completely John's type.

John watches him, sipping at his drink, thinking about the best way to approach the man without undue awkwardness. As he’s thinking, though, his feet are already moving. There’s something magnetic about the man; despite his small stature, he speaks with such conviction and assurance that it’s impossible to ignore him, and whatever jokes he’s making through his toothy grin, the men around him are eating them up, laughing like giddy schoolboys. John can hardly be blamed for drawing closer.

“So there I was, right, two after midnight, set upon by highwaymen, just returning from, if I may be so bold gentlemen, a very enjoyable romp, when I realize I have picked up an unintended souvenir. As I’m fighting off these vagabonds, I notice the good lady’s stockings have become entangled with my belongings and are blowing about in the breeze!”

The men roar with laughter. The man standing closest to the handsome storyteller is a young Frenchman with a powdered wig and an aristocratic nose. His cheeks are pink with drink and he very near sloshes his choice of vintage on the surrounding men. “This same time, I was back at camp, so, how you say, filled with worrying.” His English is obscured with a thick accent and there's a furrow to his brow as he speaks, as if he's carefully considering his words. Combined with his earnest tone and the bright enthusiasm in his eyes, the quality is endearing. “Where is Hamilton? Why has he not returned? I decide I must ride out and look for him as mon Général would miss him soon.”

Hamilton. John recognizes that name. Hamilton is the bright young aide to General Washington. His name has already become well known throughout the country both for his bravery in battle and the sheer volume of his correspondence on General Washington’s behalf. Sure enough, John spots the green riband denoting an aide-de-camp across Hamilton’s chest.

Hamilton continues on, “There were four of them, not too many to manage but still hardly an even contest, but I found that they were quite distracted by the linen flag atop my horse!” He laughs, “Naturally, I bested them far more easily than I had anticipated. It was lucky that the moon was out, because as I was crossing swords with the men, I noticed that beneath their dark coats, they were clad in red! These were no ordinary highwayman, but redcoats, perhaps in the process of delivering important correspondence.” The crowd of listeners gasped and booed at the mention of the enemy, but Hamilton continued, “I set upon them in a fury, for I was no longer fighting just for my life and my belongings, but for the cause of liberty.”

Hamilton’s phrasing is so dramatic John has to laugh, quietly. Hamilton pauses to take a liberal drink from his glass of ale. “Once they were downed, I collected a bundle of letters from their satchels. It was far too dim to read them, but I took them, with the hope they’d be of some use.”

The Frenchman shakes his head as if in reproach but he's grinning too hard for that to be believable. “I am saddling my horse, and I am wondering where to look for him when I see him! He rides into camp, his uniform soiled, still carrying some mademoiselle's stockings, and he says, ‘Lafayette, I have stolen letters from the redcoats!’ And I am only thinking, ‘Mon dieu!’”

Hamilton, who apparently has a dramatic streak a mile wide, gives a bow to the applause of the crowd of listeners.

“And did the letters contain anything of importance?” asks a young man. His high eager tenor betrays his age, though John cannot see his face. His imagination has clearly been captured by the story. Some of the older men have been laughing at the bawdy humor of the tale, but this young man is halfway to hero worship.

“Why, you cannot expect me to divulge such a thing in a crowded tavern!” Hamilton replies, waving a hand dismissively.

John can’t help but laugh. “Which means, of course, that there was nothing of substance in those letters. No doubt they were a parcel of sentimental love poems with no military substance whatsoever.”

Hamilton’s hawk-sharp eyes fix on John immediately. He's clearly on his way to drunk, if not already there. His face is flushed and there's a subtle slur or perhaps an accent John can't place clinging to his words when he speaks. Nevertheless his gaze is arresting and intense and John has to suppress a shiver, having it on him.

“You wound me, sir. I could have lost my life that morning in pursuit of those letters.” Hamilton points a finger at him dramatically. “Do you doubt my utmost devotion to the cause?”

“Frankly, Colonel, that is the least doubtful thing about you,” John replies, off the cuff, then colors in mortification and opens his mouth to apologize. Before he can, he's interrupted by unrestrained laughter.

It's Lafayette, the Frenchman who had been the co-teller of Hamilton’s bawdy tale. “I like you,” he declares, wiping a tear from his eye, though whether it's real or a dramatic gesture is impossible for John to judge at this distance. “Come here, sir, what is your name? I am the Marquis de Lafayette. It is Lafayette to my friends.”

John has no choice but to approach Lafayette, suddenly conscious of all the eyes on him. “I'm John,” he says. He's suddenly shy about his last name. These men will know it, no doubt, and he doesn't really want to open that bag of worms right now. It's a little unusual not to give his surname and terribly informal, but Lafayette doesn't seem to be the sort who would mind.

Sure enough, Lafayette reward him with a sunny grin. Hamilton’s gaze, however, is much more appraising.

“You are in uniform John, but I don’t know you. Are you newly stationed here?” Hamilton says, the question pointed.

“Indeed sir. I take up a new position tomorrow but I didn't want to dress the part until I have begun the work,” John says, glad he had not done so, or his rank and therefore his identity would have been made obvious. “You are Colonel Alexander Hamilton, are you not?”

“I am,” says Hamilton, stiffly. He looks strangely defensive, as if John had brought up his name and rank to mock him.

“I have a great admiration for your work, Colonel Hamilton,” John says. He hadn't intended to announce that, but he felt the urge to smooth Hamilton’s ruffled feathers.

“Ah,” says Hamilton, and grins. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

“Forgive me. I couldn't resist. You left yourself quite open for that response, you must admit.”

Too loudly, Lafayette announces, “Come, we will leave Hamilton to defend his honor. There is much work to be done tomorrow, no?” Somehow, he manages to disperse the crowd of onlookers and gives Hamilton a strangely playful look before he says, more quietly but no less enthusiastically. “It has been a pleasure, John. I hope to see more of you. Hamilton, do not get into too much trouble, hmm?” He hardly gives John time enough to give him proper acknowledgement before he's striding off towards the exit, following the crowd of fellows stumbling off to bed.

“I make no promises!” Hamilton calls after him, grinning. Then he turns his gaze back on John. John is either much more drunk than he thought or Hamilton is eyeing him up and down. “So John, you know of me. Am I quite what you expected?”

“You are not much like the man I imagined,” John replies honestly. “And I am glad for it. I have no doubt you are no less a hero and a skilled wordsmith but you are much more affable than I anticipated.”

Hamilton’s eyes are bright with mirth. “Ah, but you have not seen me with a pen in hand. I am not easily waylaid when I am at work.”

“Given the nature of your position and the sheer volume of your correspondence, that is hardly to be expected,” John says.

He's startled when Hamilton frowns at that. “I should be doing more,” he says. “There is much that needs doing that I am more than capable of.” He takes a liberal drink from his glass.

“Your spirit of fervor is admirable. I wish to give as much as myself as I am able to this cause. But having heard you have been unsatisfied with the scope of your work, I fear there is no hope for me.” John shakes his head. “Nevertheless, I have not come here to give up on the ideas I have envision before I even attempt to put them into place.”

“Good man!” Hamilton says and grins. “If you're a defeatist, you’ll not last long here. We lose more battles than we win, but we’re playing the long game. I admit I can be impatient at times to see more progress, but that's no reason to abandon my goals. Persistence, sir, is the reason I stand here today.”

“Does your persistence apply to your love life as well?” John says and hears the flirtatious tone in his voice as he says the words. Damn, he's more drunk than he thought he was, if he's blatantly flirting that way.

Hamilton grins like a shark. John imagines the expression isn't meant to reassure him, but it does. Clearly Hamilton either hasn't perceived or hasn't taken offense to John’s tone. “Indeed, if my quarry is worth pursuing, I'm told I'm quite an incorrigible flirt.”

“And what is your measure of--” he nearly says ‘of a woman’s worth’ but hesitates. Surely, he's reading Hamilton wrong, but. He seems responsive to John and his expression, though muddled a little with drink, looks appraising, if not hungry. “--the worth of your prey.” John replies at last. He doesn't want to give himself false hope but he also doesn't want to disway Hamilton if John’s interest is mutual.

“Oh. Well, that depends.”

“On what?” John replied, his mouth suddenly dry.

Hamilton stumbles a little when he steps forward; he's more addled by the drink than John had thought. John immediately steps forward to steady him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He meets Hamilton’s eyes and they twinkle with delight. Oh.

“Could I convince you to walk me back to my quarters? I'm afraid I had a splash of Lafayette’s vintage before I started here and I hadn't known he preferred it so strong. I imagine I could make it on my own, but rather less gracefully than I would like.”

“Of course,” John says, “Here, take my arm.” He links arms with Alex, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. He can't possibly be misreading this. Surely, even his desperate hope that Hamilton shares his interest couldn't blind him so completely as this?

Alex laughs, a high noise of delight. “What am I, one of your Southern belles?” He doesn't protest any further, though, and makes no effort to remove his arm from John’s. It's then that John notices the cloth bound and tied around Alex’s wrist. It could indicate an injury, but John knows better than to really believe that. Washington's men are required to hide their marks, better to focus on the patriotic cause. John is just drunk and infatuated enough to think, stupidly, ‘Oh, he's not mine.’ Marks match in both in design and placement. John’s wrists are bare.

“You asked for an escort Colonel and I am honor bound to provide,” John says and smiles at him. Side by side like this, it's very obvious Hamilton is a small man, though John could gather that seeing him next to Lafayette. It's another unexpected trait of his; John would not have imagined Washington’s closest aide to be a short man. Yet, somehow, John thinks Hamilton’s height suits him.

Hamilton’s step is a little unsteady so John is forced to keep careful hold of him as they head out into the brisk night air. Hamilton guides him to the house where Washington’s aides are staying and curses like a sailor as they make their unsteady way up the staircase and he nearly tumbles backwards after missing a step.

“Won't you disturb the other aides?” John whispers, after Hamilton lets out a little cry of triumph when they reach the landing.

“No, they all sleep like the dead. Never you mind them, anyway. They may seem high and mighty, but they're the same as you or I.”

“I'll bear that in mind,” John replies, amused.

They head inside one of the rooms and John is surprised to find that his belongings have been placed inside the room for him. It seems he's already met his roommate.

Hamilton catches him looking and must mistake his interest. “Ah, but we’re to have a real gentleman join our ranks tomorrow. I'd near forgotten. I imagine he’ll be one of those stuffy, arrogant types.”

“Oh?” John says, trying not to give himself away by snickering in amusement.

“Mmn, he's the oldest son of Henry Laurens, of the continental Congress. The man is rich as anyone and no doubt his son will be both green and full of himself in the worst way.” Hamilton flops down on his bed like an untethered marionette.

“Where do you suppose he is now? His belongings seem to have all arrived.” John says, using the excuse to look over his things and make sure nothing was misplaced. It seems all is in order, though he’ll have to organise it better in the morning.

“Perhaps he's found more suitable lodgings elsewhere,” Hamilton replies. “I've no idea. I can't believe I'm meant to share a room with him.”

“Surely you don’t object to the man just because of his wealth? That’s hardly a measure of a man,” John says. “You’ve hardly given him a chance.”

Alex sits up, starts to undo the fastening on his boots. “In truth, I’m afraid I have a bias. I am quite cynical about mankind and I am not accustomed to making many particular attachments.”

“Well then, I shall endeavor to change your mind,” John says, cheerfully, forgetting his ruse for a moment.

Alex looks up for his task, looking at John quizzically. “What did you say your family name was, John?”

Oops. Caught. “I didn't,” John says, carefully.

Hamilton blanches. “Oh. God. I'm. I’m terribly sorry John--er, Colonel Laurens, I--”

John laughs, takes a seat on his own bed now that he can rightfully lay claim to it. “It's quite alright. You had no reason to suspect who I was and I led you to believe I was an entirely distinct person. Please, call me John. I've gotten accustomed to it from you already.”

\---

Alexander introduces John to the family properly the next morning. Washington is nonplussed when he finds out the introduction of his newest aide to his right hand man has already been carried out. He becomes resigned, quickly, to the idea that one was henceforth not to be seen without the other. Lafayette, of course, is thrilled.

Laurens, despite all his fine trappings, quickly worms his way into Alexander’s heart. He’s funny, whip smart, and a bleeding heart in the best way. By the end of the first week, they’re very near finishing each other’s sentences.

“My god, you two are frightening,” Lafayette tells them, in French. He’d been thrilled to learn that John was fluent and has taken to addressing both of them in French almost exclusively when the three of them are talking privately. “Are you certain the two of you have never met before?”

John laughs. “I am certain. As well you know, it is quite impossible to forget meeting a man such as our Hamilton.”

“This is true,” Lafayette is saying, and he keeps talking, but Alex is too busy staring at John. He’s got the whitest teeth Alex has ever seen, and when he laughs, his green eyes seem to sparkle. In other words, he’s exceedingly handsome, and when John looks over at him, gives him a curious look, Alex just smirks. Alex is expecting him to look away, maybe flush demurely. Instead, John winks.

“Are you alright, Alexander? You are all red! Do not tell me you have come down with something!” Lafayette says, and John laughs and laughs.

They’re not subtle. They're not stupid enough to say or do anything overtly that will get them in real trouble, but it's clear to anyone paying attention who knows what to look for that John and Alexander are flirting.

Subtlety has never been Alexander’s style and it isn’t John’s either, as it turns out. John might actually be the most reckless person Alexander has ever met, and he’s including himself. John gets shot out of his saddle and laughs it off and Alex can’t complain, because he’d been shot out of his saddle, and anyway, he’s too busy trying to help win them the war.

Then John decides to charge in towards a building filled with armed British soldiers and attempt to burn them out. He’s still smiling, even when he comes up to Alexander afterwards holding his sabre in the wrong damn hand, because the other one’s blood-sodden and hanging limply by his side.

It keeps happening. Even when John isn’t injured in battle, it’s not for lack of trying. He’s always in the heat of it, and Alexander sees him trudging back to camp, bloodstained and wild-eyed, and it’s always a guessing game whose blood it is. The thing is, Alexander wouldn’t mind it quite so much if he didn’t think John enjoyed it, in some awful twisted way. The brushes with death.

“Do you want to die?” Alexander hisses, boiling with rage, after John’s latest escapade leaves him injured, again.

John is seated on his pallet, critically examining his bandaged shoulder. “Well, I didn’t,” he says and clicks his tongue. “Lord, but these really itch.”

“Answer the question,” Alexander says, pacing up and down the length of the little space they share, “Are you trying for it? Are you being reckless because of more than just devotion to the cause?”

John looks up sharply at Alexander and his eyes flash. “Alex. I’m fine. You have no cause to worry.”

Alexander throws his hands up. “Answer the question, John! It’s distressing me that you keep dodging it, because I’m starting to believe what you’re saying is, ‘Yes, Alex, I am trying to kill myself, and it’s only a matter of time before I succeed!’”

“Ham. Calm down,” John says. He gets to his feet, strides over to put a hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “I--I’m not trying to die, okay? If I was, don’t you think I’d just run straight into a redcoat’s bayonet? But, surely, you must admit that dying in battle wouldn’t be a bad way to leave this world. It would mean something. Giving my life for the cause.”

Alexander shakes John’s hand off his shoulder. The hurt in John’s eyes makes Alexander pause. Alex sighs, takes a breath. “Yes, it would mean something. It’s important. I’m not about to discredit the good men who have given their lives in this war. But Laurens, dear Laurens, surely you know I have plans for after the war?”

“Yes,” says John, grinning. “You’ve told me, at length.”

“Well, those plans include you. So you’ve got to make it through the war so my plans can see their proper fruition. Promise me.”

John sighs. “Alexander, it doesn’t work like that. I can’t make that promise. We can’t control who makes it through a battle and who doesn’t. It’s been a long time since I was green enough to believe that.”

“I won’t let you go,” Alexander says, knowing how stupid and childish he must sound, but too furious to care. He jabs a finger at John’s chest, stares into John’s stupidly pretty green eyes, “You hear me, John Laurens? You’re not allowed to leave me.”

“Okay,” John says, softly, “Okay.”

Then they’re kissing, as easy as breathing. Kissing John, it turns out, is as easy as befriending him was. Effortless. John tilts his head, deepens the kiss, and Alexander cups his cheek, strokes his jaw.

“That goes for you too, you understand,” John says, whispers the words, his lips moving against Alexander’s. “You must fulfill those big plans of yours.”

\---

Those words echo in Alexander’s mind when he has his own brush with death. Really, he’d been extraordinarily lucky. It was a dangerous mission and he hadn’t been shot, just gotten a little wet, though he couldn’t say the same for his poor horse. Growing up on an island, swimming is as easy for him as walking, and everyone who knows him knows he’s got truly impressive lung strength, despite his propensity towards illness. Most of it, he doesn’t even remember, lost in the fog of adrenaline and ‘can’t die here, got to get back to John, got some much more to do!’ He’d even stopped off to pen a letter to President Hancock of the Continental Congress before he’d headed back to camp to report and obtain a change of clothes. If he had known, of course, that he’d been declared dead, he might have been a bit more urgent about it.

Instead, any urgency he possesses is simply to get into dry clothes before he catches a chill, because he doesn’t have time to be sick, not now. He does wonder, as he’s walking through camp, why he’s getting so many shocked looks, but he imagines it’s probably because he’s wet and he’d given his jacket to a wounded young patriot with a leg wound. Thus, he’s wandering around, shivering, in just his white shirt, which is currently plastered to him, and doesn’t leave much of anything to the imagination. Normally, he wears bandages wound round his chest, to hide his mark, but he never wears them on a mission or in battle; it’s too constricting. How was he meant to know he’d end up soaked? If Washington wants to take issue with him for indecency and openly showing his marks, well, Alexander has a pretty convincing excuse.

“John!” Alexander calls, grinning, as he strides into the room he shares with John. “Good lord, you’ll never believe what happened to me today! Have I got a story for you!” His good mood evaporates when he sees John’s expression. In his eagerness to share his adventure, he hadn’t noticed that when he’d entered the room, John, had been sitting on his bed, head in his hands. When John looks up, his eyes are bloodshot and puffy. He’s been crying.

“Alex?” he says, and his voice is the softest Alexander has ever heard it.

“What’s happened?” Alex says, “John, what have I missed?” He’s striding to John’s side in an instant, kneels in front of John so that he can meet John’s eyes, swipe at the tear tracks on John’s cheeks. “Is it your father? Your siblings?”

“Oh god,” John moans, and devolves into sobbing, awful and painful-sounding. Tears roll down his cheeks to replace those that Alexander had wiped away. Alexander shushes him, moves to sit beside him on the bed and wrap his arms around him. John curls into him, and his fingers curl around the fabric of Alexander’s shirt and cling.

“John, please, talk to me? Tell me what’s going on. It can't be the war, surely, or I would know what troubles you. Is it your family or another matter entirely?”

“You were dead,” John sobs and Alexander’s heart stops. “They told us--They told us you’d been set upon by the British, that you’d gone under the water and hadn’t resurfaced. Alexander, Captain Lee swore he’d searched up and down the river for you, on the off chance you might have survived, and found no trace of you.”

“I’m fine,” Alex says, “honestly, I wasn’t even bloodied in the slightest! I had to warn Hancock to move everyone out of Philadelphia right away, so I had to stop and pen him a letter. That, and I was with another man, who’d been injured, and needed medical attention.”

John sobs again, presses his cheek against Alexander’s chest. Alex doesn’t know what to say; he’d been counting on the explanation of why it had taken him so long to return to headquarters to comfort John, and he has no idea what to try next. So instead, he simply shushes John, repeats over and over, “I’m here John. I’m right here. It’s alright.” They sit there for what seems like hours, John shaking in Alexander’s arms. Alex wishes he’d been able to change clothes because he’s freezing, but like hell is he going to let go of John now. Finally, it seems John can cry no longer and his gasping sobs devolve into little hiccuping noises.

“There now, you’re alright,” Alexander tells him. John responds by surging up to catch Alexander’s mouth in a bruising kiss.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” John says, fiercely. “Alex. I. I didn't know what to do. When I thought you’d---you've no idea what it was to think, even for a moment, that I was living in a world without you in it.”

“You were the one who said we can’t control who lives and--”

“Don’t.” John says eyes hard. “Not the time, Alex.”

“Right!” Alexander squeaks. “Not the time, yes. Quite right. Forget I said that.”

John shakes his head, scrubs at his eyes. “Let’s get you out of those clothes, yeah? You’ve gotten me all wet too.” He stands, strides over to the dresser.

Alexander grins, “I would have changed first thing, except someone got a little clingy.”

“Oh be quiet,” John grumbles, rummaging through the drawers and removing a spare pair of trousers. “For all I knew you’d died. I think I have some excuse for being--” He’s turned, posed to lob the trousers in Alexander’s direction, and has frozen there, staring at Alexander like he’s seen a ghost. That look would have made sense a few minutes ago, but Alex had really thought they’d gotten past that. “Your mark,” John croaks, “I--I thought it was on your wrist.”

“Oh,” says Alexander, “Yes. One of them is. I have two marks. You didn’t know that?” Alexander frowns in confusion. He thought John would have noticed, seeing as they share a room. But then, John always turns his back when Alex changes, if he’s awake. Usually, Alex is out of bed long before John is. So then, it follows that John may never have seen his bare chest.

“No, I didn’t know,” John says, staring so intently at Alex’s chest that Alex frowns back at him, trying to figure out why John’s so preoccupied with his mark.

“It is not so unusual to have more than one,” Alexander says, crossing his arms over his chest, “Though having two black marks, I suppose, is rather uncommon. Not many people are prone to having more than one romantic soulmate. Still, you needn't stare.”

“M-My apologies,” John stutters, and twists around so fast that Alex’s confusion only grows. He wouldn't have expected this sort of behavior from John on this topic. Then he has an idea. A theory, rather. He doesn't voice it to John; if Alexander’s theory is right, it appears John doesn't wish to confirm it now. That's alright. For now, Alex decides he ought to make it known to the rest of the camp, including the General, that he still lived. He'd work on gathering evidence for his theory later.

\---

The moment the bright-eyed colonel walked into the room, Eliza’s eyes are on him. She isn’t normally prone to outright flirting but boy watching is quite a different matter, and something about this young man grabs her attention immediately. It’s something in his deep set eyes, a curious quality she can’t identify.

“This one’s mine,” she whispers to Angelica, then. She only means to tell her sister that she’s interested and ask her if she wouldn’t mind figuring out more about him. But the words feel right, slipping off her tongue, and she doesn’t take them back, even when Angelica gives her a strange, searching look.

When Angelica guides the handsome colonel to Eliza, he takes her hand to kiss it, and she notes, heart fluttering her chest, the white handkerchief tied around his wrist. The mark on her own wrist, hidden by the sleeve of her gown, seems to tingle. But she doesn’t say a word. It would be bold to enquire about his mark so soon after their meeting and a combination of shyness and fear of disappointment stops her tongue. Instead, she is whisked around the dance floor, and stares into those deep intelligent eyes all night.

“Will I see you again? May I write you?” Alexander asks her, when the party has wound down, and the the air has finally cooled. He is lingering though many of the other soldiers have already departed, and he has not let go of her hand.

“Yes,” she says, “Yes, please do.”

His letters, pages and pages of them, only make her more sure. He calls her “my angel”, “my beloved Betsey”, “dearest” and his “charmer”. She sits in her bedroom at night, devouring his perfect paragraphs, and rubbing absently at the curl of the mark that sits on the inside of her wrist. She’s certain now, as positive as it is possible to be, without comparing marks, that he is hers.

The day Alexander proposes to her, they are walking arm and arm in the park. Eliza had set the pace, and Alexander had seemed more than happy to follow it, so it catches her by surprise when he stops and his arm slips from hers, so suddenly she nearly stumbles.

“Alexander, are you quite alright?” Eliza asks, a little frightened when she turns and sees the anxious expression on his face.

“Yes,” he replies, too quickly. “Yes, it’s only that. Eliza, um. I’ve come to love you a great deal, and, well-” He’s fidgeting, not meeting her gaze.

“Alexander,” Eliza breathes, realization dawning. Alexander is not prone to nerves nor does he often stumble his words. This is no rejection, for he is perfectly capable of dismissing someone without showing any embarrassment. Which means... “Are you--”

“No, no, wait!” he cries, throwing his hands up, “Please, let me finish.”

“Alright,” Eliza says, soothingly, “But perhaps, it would be best if we talked over there rather than in the middle of the path?” She indicates a bench a few feet away, facing the little pond.

“You’re quite right,” Alexander replies, and strides over to the bench with such determination that Eliza has to restrain a giggle.

She takes a seat, tucking her dress beneath her, and Alexander sits beside her. Their knees brush as they both turn inward. Alexander smiles, presses his hand over hers. They sit in silence for a moment, Alexander’s thumb stroking the top of Eliza’s hand.

“I beg you, let me start again,” Alexander says.

“Please do,” says Eliza, quietly.

Alexander takes a deep breath, then says, quickly, “I mean to ask your father for your hand. But I wanted to know your feelings first. Would you, knowing what you know of my character and my history and my prospects, consent to become my wife?”

Tears prick at the corner of Eliza’s eyes. “I would like nothing better in the whole world,” Eliza tells him, earnestly.

“Are you certain?” Alexander says anxiously, leaning in closer. “Have you thought of what your life would be, if you were my wife? You read my letter discussing the subject I hope?”

“Many times,” Eliza says. Her cheeks hurt with smiling so hard. “There is nothing in the world that would make me happier than to be your wife.” Alexander smiles back at her, squeezes her hand in his.

“In that case.” Alexander motions to his wrist, covered today with a white ribbon, neatly into a slightly skewed bow. A gift ready to be unwrapped. “It is only a formality at this point, but. May I?”

Eliza nods. Her words have escaped her. She watches, hardly remembering to breathe, as Alexander unties the ribbon torturously slowly. As he begins to unwrap it, she starts to make out the dark lines beneath the white fabric and she knows, she knows, she knows.

It’s a feather, with a soft curve at its center, printed horizontally across his wrist in black ink. Eliza gasps, fumbles with her sleeve. She pushes it down to reveal the tattoo's mirror image upon her own wrist.

Alexander looks at her, eyes glowing, and grins. “I knew it,” he says happily, pressing their wrists together so their marks are side by side.

She laughs. “You did not,” she teases, but she knew it too, had known it in her heart for some time.

“I did!” Alexander insists, “Eliza, there is not a woman alive who has made me feel as you have. I am at your mercy, truly.”

“My father can hardly refuse you now,” Eliza tells him, strokes the mark upon his wrist with her thumb. “You’re mine.” He shivers at her touch, looks up at her with the deepest look of adoration she’s seen on his face yet.

“Yes,” he tells her, a dreamy quality to the word. “You are a temptress and I, your willing prey.”

“Goodness!” Eliza giggles, and leans in to whisper in Alex’s ear. “You ought to save that sort of talk for when we can be alone.”

Alexander colors, eyes flicking from side to side to ascertain whether anyone had overheard them. He clears his throat. “Yes, yes I should. You are right as always, my dear.” He bites his lip, worries it a little in his mouth.

“Actually, there is one more item we must discuss,” Alexander says, and his nerves are back, though his intense expression is tempered by the smile that still lingers around the corners of his mouth. “My dear Betsey, please do not doubt the depths of my affection for you. You are the only woman who rules my heart. But.” He swallows. “I am destined to share my heart with two people. You are one of these and the other...well, I have my suspicions, but I have yet to confirm them.”

“Two?” Eliza echoes, heart racing.

Alexander nods, looks at her with eager desperation. “I know I ought to have told you sooner, but I did not wish to write of it, for fear my letter might be intercepted or my intentions misunderstood. I hope this news won’t temper your joy. The both of you will be equal in my heart, I can assure you.”

“May I--can I see it?” Eliza asks.

That was clearly not the reaction Alexander was anticipating. He does a double take, stares at her with surprise, then shakes his head. “Not now I’m afraid. I’d have to partially undress.” He takes her hand and presses it to a space just beside his left collarbone. “It’s here.”

‘So near his heart,’ Eliza thinks. She’s surprised to find the thought doesn’t make her jealous, only more curious to know about the person who she will share her future husband’s life with. “And it’s in black?”

“Yes,” Alexander replies, “It is.”

Eliza nods. Well then. She supposes it’s only fair if she tells him her little secret as well. “When I was a little girl,” she begins, “Angelica and I were playing and I fell and twisted my ankle.” Alexander’s expression twists with confusion, but he doesn’t interrupt her. “I sprained it and it became swollen and bruised terribly. I’m sure I would have noticed it eventually, but the bruising made it much more apparent.”

A look of dawning comprehension crosses Alexander’s face. “You have another mark?”

“Yes,” she replies, “In white. It’s difficult to see it against my skin, but it’s visible, if you know where to look.”

“Oh Betsey,” Alexander says, and smiles. “That’s perfect. I hadn’t wanted you to feel left out, like I loved you any less. But there’s someone else out there for you too. Do you know who it is?”

Eliza shakes her head. “I’m almost positive I haven’t met them yet, whoever they are. But you said earlier you might know who has your other mark?”

“Yes,” Alexander replies, and his expression goes fond and distant. “I’m almost certain.”

“Well then, you ought to confirm it, and bring them to meet me.” Eliza tells him.

Alexander smile sharpens into a grin. “That, my dearest Eliza, is the plan.”

\---

“Relax,” Lafayette chides Alex in French, breaking him out of his spiraling thoughts, “You are like a groom on his wedding day!” They are walking outside, attempting to distract themselves from the October chill with conversation.

“Oh leave off,” grumbles Alex, but he can’t stop fidgeting and his brain has chosen to fixate on John, so that every moment he spends not actively thinking about something else, John steals into his thoughts again.

John returns to camp today. Alex has been longing to see him, cursing the fact that John is terrible at writing him back over the period of their long separation. To be fair to John, he’s been more than busy. John had been in South Carolina trying to win over the minds of his countryman and bring his plan for a black regiment to fruition, been a prisoner of war, then he had gone to France on a diplomatic mission. So, Alex admits reluctantly to himself that John has had some cause not to be as forthcoming with his letters as Alex would like.

After being together every hour of the day, being without him had been an awful adjustment at first; Alexander had struggled the first few days of John’s absence with focusing on his work and it was bad enough that all of the other aides found out and teased him mercilessly. Now that he’s finally going to be reunited with his dearest friend, Alexander is suddenly uncommonly nervous. What if he has been misremembering the close relationship he had with John? Perhaps, in his mind, he has made the attachment into something more than it was. Or perhaps, after all this time apart, there will be a stilted awkwardness between them and they will never regain the ease between them.

John is usually more reserved in his letters in a way that he never is in person. Besides that, his letters are so few and far between that many times Alexander has despaired of ever receiving word from him, and had to stoop to begging for John to write. He misses John, desperately, and more than that, he’s worried about him. John was angry and frustrated when he realized South Carolina’s elite weren’t so willing to give up their slaves as John had hoped. And John’s mind was in turmoil when he had been held prisoner by the British. He’d written Alex some, frankly, alarming letters during that time. He’s anxious to see John in person so that he can get a read on his mental state and be able to provide more comfort to him than just words on a page.

“Come,” says Lafayette, switching to English now, and looping an arm around Alexander’s shoulders affectionately, though he has to hunch a little to manage it with the difference in height between them. “Do not worry. We must save the worrying for General Cornwallis, no?”

Alexander grins, shaking thoughts of John from his head at last to focus on the topic of conversation. “Quite right my friend,” he says. “He ought to very worried now. With Admiral DeGrasse controlling the seas and Washington and Rochambeau approaching on land, Cornwallis has much to be thinking of. If he’s smart, he will choose cowardice over courage and flee before we manage to trap him completely, but he has too much pride for that, I think.”

Lafayette nods seriously, then shoots Alex a cheeky grin. “That will be his undoing. I cannot fault him for it. Pride and loyalty are important and admirable qualities in a General. But if I were him, I would not plant my feet when our combined forces are bearing down on him.”

“I’d rather he stand and fight. It will be much more entertaining,” says John, and Alexander whirls around to find him walking not five yards behind them, still dressed in his riding clothes, cheeks and nose pink from the cold.

“Jack!” Alex cries, delighted, “Good lord, you must have rode like hell. Everyone supposed you wouldn’t be here for another hour at least!”

John grins. “I ought to have taken my time. We still have a fair amount of traveling to do, I understand.”

Alex pauses to take him in. He’s wearing his heavy coat so there’s not much of him to see besides his face, which has filled out a little since the hell that was last winter at Valley Forge. He looks good, eyes bright and crooked grin fixed in place. Alex is relieved and filled with affection in equal measure.

John quirks an eyebrow. “Like what you see, Hammie?”

“Yes,” says Alexander, entirely too frankly, and rushes to embrace him. John chuckles, which Alexander can feel against his cheek.

Alex had nearly forgotten Lafayette, until the Frenchman comes up behind him and wraps his arms around John, effectively trapping Alex between them. “We have missed you sorely,” says Lafayette, softly.

“Thank you,” says John, bashfully. “It’s good to see you both. I half convinced myself on the ride over that you’d’ve forgotten all about me by the time I returned.” He’s clearly meaning for his words to sound like a jest, but Alexander can hear the earnestness beneath, and John looks down at him with his green eyes.

“Don’t be stupid,” Alex says, stands on his tiptoes to press a kiss to the first patch of skin he can reach, which happens to be the side of John’s neck. He does it quickly, so quickly in fact that John looks startled for a half a second before his expression becomes one of equal fondness and embarrassment.

“I am right here,” Lafayette grumbles, giving Alex an evil eye as he detangles himself from their three person embrace. But he was quickly returns to his usual good humor and smiles brightly at John. “It is good to have you back, my friend. Have you seen mon Generàl yet?”

John shoots Lafayette a guilty expression that clearly means, ‘No, actually I was in such a rush to see Alex that I may have forgotten?’ Or at least, that’s what Alex’s love-addled brain wants it to mean.

Lafayette sighs. “Alexander, release John if you please.”

Alex does release him—for now—and allows John to be welcomed by Washington and the rest of the camp. But it’s a different story when they’ve made it through the day and John joins him in the tent that had been reduced to just Alex’s and is now Alex-and-John’s once again. John smiles at him, looking tired but pleased as he ducks inside. Alex is seated at the desk he’s set up inside the tent. He has one in the aide’s tent, of course, but tonight, he wanted to be here when John returned, so instead of working there, which is usually what he’s wont to do, he’s taken his less confidential papers with him and had set up shop. Now that John is here, though work is the farthest thing from his mind.

“Hello,” John says, “Hard at work?”

Alex hums. “Nothing I can’t put off.” He sets down his quill and John comes over his cot, facing Alex. “How was your meeting with Washington?”

“Uneventful,” says John, “I’ve already told you much of everything about the Southern campaign. You might have found it boring, had you been in attendance.”

Alex shakes his head. “Well then, let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about the other things I learned from your letters.”

John stiffens, but doesn’t protest.

“John, why didn’t you tell me about your wife?” John sighs, looks upward as if to ask God for the answers. Alex doesn’t give John any further chance to stall. “I wouldn’t have minded so much if we hadn’t been friends for so long. Surely, the fact that you’re my dearest friend in all the world and I have told you all about my less than elegant past warrants some openness about your own situation, yes?”

“It hardly matters if I have a wife,” John replies, stiffly, staring rather determidly at the ground. “You have one too.”

Alex sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “John. Please. Just. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on with you. I don’t understand why that’s so hard.”

John fidgets, twists his fingers together, and doesn’t respond.

“Forget it,” says Alex. “I’m not angry with you about that anymore. We’d moved past this in our letters and I have no desire to open old wounds. Frankly, I just want to know you’re okay. And you scared me John. You really scared me. Some of the letters you sent me when you were away...Are you...alright?” Alex asks, hating the awkward way the question falls off his tongue. The question isn’t nearly enough to encapsulate the letters John had sent him when despair was rolling off the page in waves, and Alex had furiously penned his response, praying that John would wait for it to arrive and not do something drastic.

“Fine,” says John, flippantly. He’s not looking at Alex, his tone, purposefully light and voice higher than normal. He’s really a very terrible liar. “Better now,” he says, more earnestness in his tone and a bashful softness to his voice.

Alex decides not to press him. He doesn’t want to argue with John tonight any more than he already has, not when John’s just returned. “I’m glad you’re back. It’s rather dull around camp without you,” says Alex.

John’s eyes light up and crinkle at the corners as he smiles. He meets Alex’s eyes at last. “Well. I can’t say I missed your company.”

“No?” Alex says, clutching his brest, mock offended. “And why ever not?”

“You’re obnoxious,” John says, cheekily, “You never stop talking and you always insist upon being right.”

“I’ve been told something like that before,” says Alex, vanity making him take John’s joke a little harder than John might have meant it. But John’s smile reminds Alex he’s just teasing and he adds, “But for some reason, you decided to come back and are voluntarily spending time with me. What have I done to warrant such a change of heart?”

John laughs, pitches his voice low. “Well, you’re not all that bad to look at, for one thing.”

Alex grins, waggles his eyebrows. “Oh, you think so?”

“Mmhmm,” says John, leaning closer, and a beat later they are kissing. After such a drought, it is glorious to feel John’s mouth moving against his again. He’d forgotten the particulars of the sensation and is all too happy to remember them.

They abandon conversation for some time, relearning each other’s mouths and bodies, until Alex’s candle is nearly burned out, and then there is silence between them. Alex has joined John on the cot and they lie side by side, breaths mingling in the space between them.

“I’m not sure what I’ll do with myself when this is all over,” John confesses, whispered like it pains him.

“What do you mean?” Alex asks, “Surely you have a plan.”

John shakes his head and it makes a swishing sound against the fabric beneath them. “I’m not like you. I don’t say I’m going to do something by a certain age or make any future plans. I just. Do things. In the moment, I decide what action to take. So, no, I haven’t given any thought to what I’ll do when the war is over. I’ve been too busy fighting in it.”

“Well, luckily for you,” Alex murmurs, “You’re included in my plan.”

“And what,” asks John, quirking an eyebrow, “am I meant to do again?”

“Survive,” Alex breathes, like a prayer. “Stay with me. Help me create this country from the ground up. Other items are negotiable.”

John laughs and laughs and doesn’t stop for a long time.

\---

In the end, the most definitive battle of the war lasts only minutes. But they are minutes that feel long and important and dangerous. Dodging and countering the strike of bayonets, shouting orders over the cacophony of cannon fire. All Alex’s energy is focused on staying alive and commanding his men. As much as he wants to, there’s no way to watch John and make sure he’s safe on top of everything. He just has to keep charging forward and believe that John is behind him, wild and fierce and strong.

And then the white flag is raised and it’s over, over, over, and amid the moans of wounded men comes the cheer of victory, of relief. Alex turns and with dismay, finds that John is nowhere to be seen. He flits impatiently from man to man, asking if they’ve seen him, and a pit of worry grows in his stomach despite himself.

“Alexander,” calls John, and he is there, jogging over from behind him, grinning wide despite the blood stains on his uniform. Alex grins back at him, and they must look like fools, covered in dirt and grime and blood, staring at each other and grinning.

Alex can no longer wait to confirm his theory. He already knows the answer, because he has always felt it, the way he felt it with Eliza. He’s drawn to John, loves him so much he might burst from it, and the expression on John’s face says he feels the same way.

“John,” Alex says, “John, tell me about your mark.”

John startles a moment, his smile frozen on his face. “That’s--this is hardly the time, Hammie. We’ve just won the war!”

“I know, John, I know,” Alex says, with increasing desperation. “That’s why I’m talking about it. Because I want to celebrate. Because I want--”

Alex can almost see the way John is closing himself off. His posture becomes stiff, his eyes colder. But then, to Alex’s surprise, John shakes his head and relaxes, smiles an easy smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know about it?” he says, tone decidedly flirtatious.

“Oh, playing hard to get, are we?” Alex says, grinning. “Well then, perhaps I’ll make a guess.” He strides closer to John, until they are a hairsbreadth apart. “Your mark is on the left side of your chest, next to your left collarbone. It’s in the shape of a lighthouse.” A pause, for dramatic effect. “How did I do?”

“Well,” says John, grinning, “You’re half right.”

“Half?” Alex replies, startled.

“Yes. Did you think you were the only one with two marks?”

“No,” Alex answers honestly, but he has to admit, he’s surprised. Strangely enough, he hadn’t imagined John as someone with two marks. Selfishly, he’d assumed that he’d have all of John’s devotion and love. “Are they both in black?”

“No,” says John, and his expression in that moment is so adoring, if Alex were a weaker man he might have swooned on the spot. As it was, he has a hard time not reaching up to tug John down for a kiss by the back of his neck.

“I see,” says Alex. “So, I was half right. Which means I was right about one of your marks, yes?”

“Yes,” says John, his tone feather-light and fleeting, and Alex can’t resist anymore. They’re in the middle of everything, with far too many people watching them, but Alex can’t begin to care. The compulsion to kiss John then is like the fiercest pangs of hunger he’d experienced during the war, when men were stooping to eating leather. Except his desire for John runs deeper, stronger, and is entirely unquenchable.

John meets him in the middle, as he always does, so by the time Alex’s lips meet John’s, it is impossible to say who is kissing who. Alex forgets about the war. They are in the middle of a battlefield and they have just won the decisive battle that will end this long miserable war, and yet, all thoughts of the conflict leave his mind. There is nothing in his thoughts but John. His soulmate. The missing piece of his heart. Alex has found him, or perhaps it was more accurate to say that he was there all along. Alex thinks with glee of introducing Eliza to John, of making a name for himself after the war with his two favorite people in the world at his side. His brain happily conjures fantasies of this future, abandoning his nightmares of John lying on the battlefield, bloody and broken and cold. He has never put much stock into God or religion but he will thank God profusely now, for seeing the both of them safe through this war.

At last, after a moment and a century, they break apart, and John’s eyes are wet. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I should have told you as soon as I knew. But I was afraid.”

“Are you afraid now?” Alex asks.

“Yes,” John says, on an exhale, “Terrified.” But he is smiling a secret smile and the dimples at the corners of his mouth stand out and Alex can’t help but kiss him again.

They spring apart, moments later, however, when General Washington himself comes riding up. Alex and John both salute. Washington looks at both them, first one and then the other, with grave seriousness. Then, wonder of wonders, Washington smiles. Not a large smile, but then, even an upturned mouth from Washington was something of a minor miracle.

“As you were, gentlemen,” Washington tells them, “I will speak to you both later.” He rides on, and Alex stares after him for a moment, in a state of shock.

Alex looks at John and John looks back and a moment later they are laughing, clutching their stomachs, tears rolling down their cheeks.

“Well, I think we survived,” says John, at last, once their laughter has turned to errent giggles and then subsided. “All that’s left is for the British to organize a retreat. It won’t be longer now until the war is won for good and all the redcoats have left the country, though I suspect they’ll be more stubborn about it then we’d like.”

“I think we have won at last,” says Alex, “and I’m glad of it. Think of all the things that need doing, now. We will need to manage our finances, for one thing, and set up our government for another. Think of how much we can accomplish John, the two of us.”

“Not yet,” John murmurs, shaking his head. “Don’t put the cart before the horse, dear boy. The lobsterbacks are still here and we must deal with them first. I suspect I will be needed in Carolina soon. There are still many British there and word of this victory will take long to stir them. The Southern campaign has been a hot contest for some time and the British will be loathe to release their grip on it.”

Alex feels his heart drop at John’s words, though he knows John has a point. There’s no reason John can’t return to South Carolina now, and no reason Washington would prohibit it. Still, the idea of being separated again is not a pleasant one, especially not now that they are finally open with one another, and Alex knows for sure that John is his.

“You will have to hurry back,” Alex tells him, heart in his throat. “I will continue to make my mark on this new country at the earliest opportunity. I promise to eagerly await your return but I am not about to twiddle my thumbs and lay about when there is so much to be done.”

John smiles, tucks an errant strand of Alex’s hair which had escaped from his queue behind his ear. “I would expect nothing less from you. Don’t wait, for my sake. I will come to you, wherever you are, and we’ll go from there.”

That promise will see Alex through their inevitable separation when John rides for South Carolina again and Alex travels to New York alone to return to Betsy and to meet his son.

But first, Alex relishes their victory. That night, John takes off both his undershirt and the strips of bandage wrapped around his chest and lets Alex trace the lines of the lighthouse on his chest with careful firm strokes. They have done far more intimate acts before, but John had never removed the final barrier between them. Though they are too exhausted to do more than touch each other, it is somehow the most open John has ever been with him, and Alex relishes it.

Washington appoints John to handle the surrender of General Cornwallis and Alex’s heart is bursting with pride in country but also in John when the British lay their weapons down in a pile of clanking bayonets.

“I love you,” John says, before they are parted, and that, after the battle and the surrender and all, is what Alex remembers most vividly. In his mind’s eye, he can conjure John, his eyes bright with happiness, an errant curl hanging across the his forehead, and he can almost hear him too. John had said those three words with a touch of shyness, but he’d held Alex’s gaze, and there was conviction and happiness there, despite his nerves. It’s all so clear, even months later.

Once Alex learns that John has been killed, he tries to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This fic has been a work in progress for a long time and it's my first time publishing and finishing a multi-chaptered fic. 
> 
> Next time: Alex mourns his loss, Eliza makes a friend, and John sails across the sea.


	2. Dreaming Out Loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up.

Eliza Schuyler Hamilton knows her husband. They haven’t been married for long, in the grand scheme of things, but a part of Alexander’s soul is hers. She knows him. The way he reacts to the death of Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens is not what she would have expected. Alexander has had cause to lose many friends in this war, though none perhaps more dear to him than John Laurens. Alexander’s normal reaction when grieving, from what Eliza has experienced, is to throw himself into a project, as if burying himself in calculations and columns and theories will allow him to erase the grief from his mind. Bearing that in mind, Alexander’s initial reaction to John Laurens’ death is within the norm. 

“I have so much work to do.”

The trouble is, Alexander doesn’t work. He doesn’t seem to do much of anything. He pushes his dinner around on his plate, stares aimlessly off into space for long stretches, and sleeps even less than he normally does. Eliza can feel him tossing and turning in bed and sometimes she hears quiet sobs, when he thinks she’s asleep. He disappears for long stretches into his office, but when she looks in on him, he’s never working. Just sitting, quill dipped in ink that drips in forlorn splotches on barren parchment. 

Alexander has never told her the name of his second soulmate, the man Eliza was to share her husband’s heart with. Eliza is not a genius, not like her husband or her older sister, but it isn’t hard to guess. 

Her suspicions are confirmed when she says, apropos of nothing, “We need to talk about John Laurens,” and Alexander’s first reaction is to clutch at the fabric of his shirt so hard his knuckles turn white, gripping his chest right where Eliza knows his mark sits. “He was your second soulmate, wasn’t he?” Eliza asks, as gently as she can. 

Tears well up in Alexander’s eyes. “I suppose there’s no fooling you Betsey,” he says. His voice cracks. A tear escapes the corner of one of Alexander’s eye and rolls down his cheek. Eliza rushes to embrace him, press him close to her, and wrap her arms around him. Alexander shakes in her arms. 

“Damn,” Alexander crokes, “I haven’t cried in front of someone else since my mother died. How weak my Betsey must think me.” 

“Never,” Eliza replies vehemently. “Alexander, you have been so strong. Tears are only natural, dearest.”

“His-His death. I can’t comprehend it. He and I were meant to build America together. And for him to die now, when the war has already been won, when we could have been together, the three of us...What was he thinking?” The last question comes out a shout. Alexander is shaking in her arms, and Eliza doesn't know if it is grief or fury. Both, she decides. 

Eliza doesn't know what to say. She hadn't known John Laurens and she is certain that religion will not be a comfort to Alexander right now. “By all accounts, he died bravely,” Eliza says, at last, and she knows immediately it was not the thing to say. 

Alexander stiffens in her arms. “He always talked of dying like a martyr. I did too, before I realized what I had to come back to. Who I had to come back to.” Eliza squeezes him in her arms. “But. After Yorktown, I had thought, perhaps foolishly, that John would live. He should never have fought that battle. Reinforcements were on the way; all he needed to do was wait for them to arrive. But,” he makes an odd choking laugh-sob, “I can't say I'm surprised. John was never one to shirk from a fight.” 

“That sounds familiar,” Eliza says, smiling. “No wonder the two of you got along so famously.” Alexander chuckles and it sounds more genuine than sad. Eliza counts it as a victory. 

“You wouldn't have believed the kind of trouble the two of us got in,” he says. 

“Goodness, you get into enough trouble on your own!” Eliza exclaims and Alexander laughs again. He doesn’t respond and she doesn’t press him, just continues to hold him. He seems past the worst of it now, but she has little interest in letting go of him. 

“I’ve gone about this all wrong,” Alexander says, after a while. “I-I thought if I put him out of my mind, if I forgot my love for him, if I let the mark fade, I could. I could move on. But I see now that's impossible. He’s too much apart of me.”

“Oh Alexander,” Eliza says, shaking her head. “My dearest, you cannot let the grief overwhelm you but neither can you shut your eyes and hope it goes away. You must remember him and continue moving forward, as I’m sure he’d want you to.” 

Alexander pulls back enough to meet Eliza’s eyes. He smiles, despite the tear tracks still evident on his cheeks. “Yes, you are right as always, my dear. If he were here, he would want me to continue my work, not sit here uselessly.” 

“You're not useless,” Eliza insists, lifts a hand to cup Alexander’s cheek. “Grieving is normal. But I hate to see you so listless, darling.” 

“I've been thinking of writing a pamphlet,” says Alexander, suddenly. “Collaboratively. The nation needs to see how important the Constitution is. I've just had the most brilliant idea for it Betsey.” 

“Eat your food first,” Eliza says, eying the mostly untouched plate. 

“So, what I've been thinking is,” Alexander starts, but the trouble is, he's hurried to obey her, and his mouth is currently stuffed full of food, so that Eliza has to strain to understand what it is he's actually saying. She can’t make out anything more than passionate mumbling.

“Darling. Food first. Then work.” 

Alexander smiles sheepishly, chews rapidly, and Eliza laughs. It's not perfect. Her Alexander is not quite whole. But this can be enough. She will make it so.  


\---

John’s sleep is dreamless, until it’s not. There is a cacophony of noise, too jumbled to decipher, and bursts of random color that flash and whirl. John awakens with sweat dewed on his brow, his chest heaving, but already he can’t recall what it was he dreamed of. He’s disoriented and becomes even more so when he realizes he has no idea where he is, what time it is or even what day it is today. He attempts to sit up and releases an involuntary groan of pain and flops down again immediately. In addition to the splitting headache he’s just now become aware of, the moment he moved, he’d also felt a sharp stab of agonizing pain, radiating out from his abdomen. 

‘Ah,’ John thinks to himself, ‘I’ve been shot again.’ He should probably be concerned by how reassured that realization makes him, but it explains his disorientation, and injury in the heat of battle is hardly new to John. He can only recall the opening moments of battle, which is embarrassing; no doubt that means he was injured early and his men were forced to carry him off the field. He only hopes they fought well without his guidance. 

John looks around as best he can while lying prone. He’s not in a medical tent, which is surprising. He instead finds himself alone, not surrounded by other injured patriots, in what looks to be a sparsely furnished bedroom. An inn then. But why? He is hardly a senior enough officer to warrant this sort of special treatment. 

The bedroom door opens then and John relaxes when he sees who it is that’s entered the room. It’s not Alexander, who John would love to see at this moment, but of course Alex is states away and can’t have heard as of yet of John’s injury. In any case, John is not sure this was a serious enough wound to warrant Alex to leave his wife and come to him in South Carolina, as much as John would appreciate it. Still, the man entering the room is a friend, and someone who John trusts. Even better, he can tell him the results of the battle they’d just fought and the circumstances surrounding how John came to be here.

Colonel Kościuszko is a serious looking man, with large deep set eyes and a cleft chin. His face is haloed by a mop of thick brown curls, tighter than John’s own. Despite his serious demeanor, Kościuszko has a good heart and is an ardent abolitionist. John has come to like him well and Kościuszko’s sharp mind is a good asset by all accounts, including John’s own. 

“Colonel Kościuszko,” John says, raises his hand, though even that small movement is enough to cause a twinge of pain. He’d meant to salute, but thinks better of it, and settles for the more casual greeting, grateful it’s appropriate in this instance. The greeting comes out rough and he has to cough halfway through, which doesn't exactly do wonders for his pain levels.

“My god!” Kościuszko exclaims and his eyes nearly bug out of his head. “You’re awake!” He rushes over to John’s bedside as frantic as John has ever seen him. He pours of water from a pitcher on the bedside table, and helps John to drink it. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” John says, when he’s finished the glass of water. He shakes his head. “I must have been out for some time. I am sorry to have been indisposed for so long.”

“My friend, you have nothing to apologize for,” Kościuszko says and to John’s surprise, after Kosciuszko sets down the empty glass, he takes John’s hand and grips it, his expression earnest. “You gave me a real fright Laurens. Everyone supposed you wouldn’t live.” 

“What?” John replies, startled. “Was the injury so severe?” 

Kościuszko shakes his head. “It was a long time before we could get you off the field. It seemed no sooner had the battle commenced then you had been shot from your saddle.” John winces. This battle will be, in all likelihood, his final engagement, and to have been shot so early in the contest is mortifying. 

“By the time you were taken back to camp, you had lost a great deal of blood and were feverish besides,” Kościuszko continues. Ah, that was right. John had ridden into battle in less than perfect health, though of course he’d kept his condition a secret from his men. He’s sure he was feverish when he began the battle and no doubt the blood loss hadn’t helped matters. Kościuszko shakes his head, swallows, before he says, gently, “Laurens, you must understand that the doctor was convinced you would not live another hour, much less another day. It’s the only reason we wrote to your family.” 

John is overcome with a wave of horrified nausea. “Wrote my family?” he repeats. He understands the implication but doesn’t want to believe it. 

“Of your…” Kościuszko hesitates. “Of your passing.” 

“But. But surely all know of my true condition now? Letters will have been sent correcting the matter?”

Kościuszko shakes his head. “You lived longer than originally predicted but your condition continued to fluctuate and the doctor was certain there was no hope. He told us you were merely continuing to fight a losing battle. And even after the fever abated, you were so still, unreactive. For days, John, not so much as a twitch. We thought you might never awaken.” 

John swears. “How long was I in that condition?” John asks, desperately, “Kosciuszko, how much time has past since the 27th of August?” 

“It has been two weeks and some days.” 

Good lord. If John wasn’t lying down already, he’d have passed out. His father thinks him dead. His siblings. General Washington and his aides. Alex. Oh god, Alex.

John swears again, more viciously. “And no one thought to tell my family and friends I lived after all, no matter how precariously?” 

Kościuszko hangs his head. “No. Colonel Laurens, I sincerely apologize. The fault is with me. The letters announcing your death were dispatched with haste and would had already been received long before we even thought it would be necessary to correct them. And after having sent such missives, I felt it would bring even more pain to your family to receive a letter granting them renewed hope of your survival, only for it to be dashed. I felt it best to wait and see whether your condition improved. If so, I would write immediately. If not, I would write and indicate that you lived after all, but be frank about the nature of your condition and the probability that you would not wake. I would have written in a scant three days time, had you not awoken. Perhaps I have waited too long, but I earnestly believed you would awaken and dreaded the idea of writing to those who love you without more positive news to report.”

John takes a long, steadying breath. It’s no use being angry with Kościuszko now. 

“Shall I fetch pen and paper? If you are too weak to write, you need only dictate to me.” Kościuszko says. 

John hesitates. He ought to write to his family and correct this horrible misunderstanding. It would be the right thing to do. But if he does, it would be expected he would return to Mepkin with all possible haste. Injured, John is no use to the cause and the war has been all but over since Yorktown. Surely by now all but the most foolhardy redcoats have abandoned their cause and sailed for Britain. John has no excuse not to return to his family home and he’s certain General Washington would give him leave to do so. He has no excuse to leave South Carolina at all. But every part of him wants to be with Alexander right now. 

“No,” John says, too firmly. He hastens to correct his mistake, realizing how strange that reply must sound. “Ah, I will write to them. I’m certain, after all this time, they will discredit a letter announcing my survival if it is not written in my own hand.”

Kościuszko nods. “Of course,” he says. “I will let the doctor know you are awake.” He salutes and strides from the room, closing the door again behind him. 

John sighs. He ought to write to Alex to assuage his grief and warn him of his intention to come to stay with him in New York. But what if Alex has moved on? He has a wife now, his soulmate, and by the time John reaches him--because even he is not fool enough to think he could ride for New York now, in his current condition--some time will have passed on top of the nearly three weeks John’s injury has cost him already. Alex could forget him, live a normal life with his wife, his soulmate, without John tagging along and weighing him down. John touches the place where the lighthouse sits, beneath his left collarbone, though he can't see the mark through the thick fabric of his shirt. What if Alex’s matching mark is faded by the time John comes to him? It’s possible for soulmate marks to fade even while both live; it’s just a matter of moving on, in one person leaving the other in the past.

That’s when he notices the letter by his bedside. He has to strain to reach it and only manages to grip the corner of the envelope and draw it towards him, but he eventually manages to draw it to himself without too much pain. It’s addressed to him, which is what initially caught his attention, but his eagerness to read it is due to the fact that the letter is written in Alexander’s hand. 

His heart pounds in his chest as he rips the envelope open messily. Sure enough, the letter inside contains Alexander’s familiar handwriting and John beams, traces the words, “my dear Laurens,” with his eyes. He notes the letter is dated August 15th, so it must have arrived not long after he was wounded. 

John scans the letter, eager as always, to read his Alexander’s words. It’s a short missive, by Alexander’s standards, but a lot of information is contained within. Alex has become a delegate to the Continental Congress for one. His father has been freed from captivity in a prisoner exchange for another. Alexander urges him to come to Congress. Oh. The image is a sweet one, despite John’s frustration with the political after dealing with stubborn slave owners in the House of Representatives. Alexander working for liberty and promoting justice in their new country and John there, by his side...And then, there is Alex’s closing. 

He signs the letter, “Yrs forever”. It is the most affectionate closing Alex has used yet, and John can’t help but press his thumb against the words and trace the letters making up the phrase. How could he have doubted Alex’s affection for him, when such obvious proof has been written here, in what Alex now must believe is a letter that John never got to read. 

He is determined. He will write to his father, but he will not be returning to Mepkin, at least not right away. It is selfish of him, cruel, to deny his father the chance to see he is well in person, but John has decided, seeing as he nearly died, he deserves to be selfish. He can’t waste the time he has now been granted. He will concentrate on improving his health as rapidly as he can, so he can ride to New York and see if Alex’s invitation to join him there is still open to him. He tells himself to be as patient as he can, that it wouldn’t be good to ride for Alex now and collapse on his doorstep, if he made it at all, but. Well, patience has never been John’s strong suit. He begins his letter to Alex straightaway.

\---

Eliza has just put Philip down for a nap when there is a knock on the door. Eliza sighs, smoothing her dress in a vain attempt to deal with the wrinkling fabric, and hurries to answer it. She is expecting a familiar face: Mr. Burr or Mr. Madison, perhaps. She does not recognize this man. 

The man behind the door immediately strikes Eliza as an earnest person. His expression is open and he's easy for Eliza to read because he telegraphs his feelings so readily. His brows furrow in surprise when he sees Eliza, as if he was expecting someone else. Then, he smiles, big and wide, and the grin extends to his eyes.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he says, the lilt of a southern accent on his tongue. “I apologize for calling unannounced. Is this the Hamilton residence?”

“It is,” Eliza says. She’s always a bit cautious about strangers at her door, but there’s something about the man’s sunny grin that makes her want to return it. “I assume you’re here to see my husband? He’s in his study now, but I’ll let him know you’re here. Who should I say is calling?”

“Ah,” the man says, gives her a sheepish smile. “My apologies. I should have guessed he’d be working at this hour. It does happen to be a matter of urgency, else I wouldn’t ask you to disturb him. Ham is--that is, I’m aware your husband is usually out of sorts when he’s interrupted.” He shakes his head. “But forgive me, I’ve been remiss in not introducing myself. Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens at your service, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Hamilton.” He inclines his head gracefully, formal but not overly showy. In that moment, he appears the perfect wealthy southern gentleman and the bright twinkle of merriment in his eyes seems to suggest he knows this. But of course John Laurens comes from one of the wealthiest families in South Carolina. He doesn't seem to possess the haughty arrogance of so many wealthy people. She likes John all the better for it. Because she came from a well-off family herself, Eliza has had the misfortune of interacting with too many of those types. But what is she thinking? John Laurens is supposed to be dead. So how can the man in front of her be the eldest son of Henry Laurens?

“You wouldn’t be the same Lieutenant Colonel Laurens that served as aide-de-camp to General Washington with my husband?” she asks, hardly daring to believe it. Surely this charming young man is a relative with the same name or perhaps it’s simply a coincidence. Perhaps she is simply hearing wrong. John is a common first name after all, and Laurens, while not so common, sounds very near to Lawrence. 

“The very same,” John replies, and smiles warmly. “I see Hamilton’s spoken of me. I’m glad.” Eliza looks at him, and his expression is all fond starry-eyed recollection, and she knows for sure. 

“Do come in,” she says, opening the door wider. He shoots her a grateful smile and steps inside. Eliza watches with some alarm the slow and careful way he’s moving. He doesn’t limp, exactly, but he doesn’t walk with the ease she was expecting in such a young man. She guides him to the parlor and gestures towards a chair. “Please, have a seat,” she tells him. He obeys, but startles when she takes the seat opposite him. He’d assumed he was going to be waiting while she went to fetch her husband. Well, she may still do so, but Eliza has a great desire to speak with him first. 

“Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens,” she says, and steeples her fingers on her lap. 

“Yes?” he replies. He has striking green eyes, and at the moment they’re wide with surprise and something like the beginnings of fear. 

“Some months ago, my husband received a letter from South Carolina. In it, he was told that you were killed in action on the 27th of August.” She pauses. John winces. “He grieved for you as one of the dearest people in his life. His soulmate. Yet somehow, you came to be here today.”

The color drains from John’s face. “D-Did he not tell you of the letter I wrote him?” 

“Letter?”

“Yes,” says John, desperately, “I wrote him, as soon as I could hold pen and paper, to assure him I was alive and to advise him of my ardent desire to see him, as soon as I had the strength to make the journey.”

Eliza shakes her head. “We have received no correspondence from you Colonel. I assure you, if we had, Alexander would have ridden to you straight away or at least written to you in return. Such was his grief after learning you had passed, I feel certain he would be unable to contain his joy if he had heard from you.” 

“Good lord,” John says, “I--forgive me. I had assumed you’d be expecting me. I had no idea...I should have written more letters, to assure the news had reached him, but by the time I felt a sufficient time had passed to write again, I was well enough to make the journey, and I had no wish to delay, even a moment. I did think it strange I did not receive a reply, but I assumed he was busy. Or, in my darker moments, I thought perhaps he was angry with me or had forgotten me...” He trails off, saying the last words so softly Eliza has to strain to hear him. His head is tilted down and away and he’s picking at a loose string on his coat. Yet, in the next moment, he looks up and meets her eyes, and his eyes are bright and passionate. They remind her strongly in that moment of Alexander’s eyes, though of course the shape and color is all wrong. “Believe me, Mrs. Hamilton, I had no desire to cause your husband any pain. That I have done so...it’s intolerable to me.”

“But what of the original letter? The one announcing your death? How did that come to pass?”

“That was quite beyond my control,” says John, and he takes a deep breath to steady himself. The way he telegraphs his feelings so easily makes Eliza think privately that it was no wonder he and Alexander are soulmates. “I was severely injured in battle. Mortally, it seemed. By the time I recovered sufficiently that the doctor could pronounce me out of danger, news of my death had already been spread. I wished to correct the error as soon as possible but I knew I was in no condition to ride here straight away. So, of course, I wrote to him, never realizing the letter would not have reached his hands.

“I can only beg for your forgiveness ma’am, for my error in judgement,” John says, his face somber, “And I understand if you wish to turn me away, but I beg you, at least, to grant me leave to end your husband’s grieving and my own torment, knowing he is in pain. I must see him.” His eyes flash with determination. Eliza does not believe John is not the sort of man to overpower her and force her out of his way, but he is also clearly bound and determined to see Alexander. 

Eliza makes up her mind. She smooths out her skirt and stands. “Wait here,” she says. His eyes brighten and he nods vigorously. She smiles at him and heads to her husband’s study. She knocks, but she does not expect he will hear, so she lets herself in. Sure enough, he is still nose deep in his writing, scribbling away with the ferocity of a man possessed. 

“Darling,” Eliza says, “We have a visitor.”

That is exciting enough news to catch Alexander’s attention, at least, but not enough to get him to stop writing. “Who is it? Burr? He told me he had the case well in hand, what does he need my counsel for?” 

“It's not Burr,” Eliza says, “Alexander, you won't be able to guess who is in our parlor, so you ought to go see for yourself.” 

Alexander pauses. He turns in his chair to face her. “Really now! I won't be able to guess? Someone unexpected... Hm. Surely not the President. He wouldn't have a need to come here. Peggy? It has been some time since we’ve last seen her. Or Angelica, now that would be unexpected, with no letter to advise us she is intending to visit.” 

“Stop trying to guess and come see him,” Eliza urges him. 

“So it's a him!” says Alexander, and Eliza has to laugh, because he sounds so pleased at having unwittingly uncovered this detail. 

Alexander leaves his desk at last and heads to the parlor. Eliza stays a step behind him, and it's a good thing she does, because the instant Alexander sets eyes on John, his knees give out and Eliza is forced to lunge forward to steady him. Alexander doesn't collapse completely, but he’s leaning heavily on Eliza and she can feel him shaking like a leaf as clear as it was her own body trembling. 

“Alex!” John cries, alarmed, and bounds across the room towards them. Or, at least, he tries to, but Eliza sees his step stutter and his hand moves to clutch his side. Still, he approaches, though clearly slower than he would have liked. 

“John?” Alexander says, his voice faint. “What...am I--am I hallucinating?”

“No,” says John, with soft affection in his voice, “You’re not hallucinating, my dear boy. I'm here. I came to New York to be with you, like you told me I ought to.” John cups Alexander’s cheek, smiles at him warmly.

“No. John, John, you were killed. You—I got a letter stating you were killed in battle. That was months ago. This is--” Alexander’s voice, faint with shock cuts off mid sentence and he suddenly twists in Eliza’s arms to meet her gaze. “How long have you known about this?”

“He showed up at the door,” Eliza tells him, “I haven't known but a few minutes longer than you.” 

“I'm sorry,” John says, softly. “I did write you. Had I known you wouldn’t receive the letter, I would have written more.”

“You’re damn right you should have!” Alexander snaps, shaking off Eliza’s hold and stepping forward to press an accusatory finger against John’s chest. “I grieved for you, damn you! I thought I had lost part of my heart forever and you couldn’t be bothered to have written to me more than once? Did you not think I would have written you back? Did you not think I would have gone anywhere in the world to see you, if I’d known you were still living?”

The obvious pain in John’s expression must affect Alexander, because he pauses, breathing hard, and just stares at John. 

“You're right,” John says, hanging his head. “All I can ask for is your forgiveness, Alex, I hate that I hurt you. I understand if you want me to leave. You and your wife have a life here and I have opened old wounds. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.” 

“Don't you dare,” Alexander hisses, all righteous indignation. “Don't you dare pull that self-sacrificing bullshit. You know I could never choose between you and Betsey. This isn't a competition between you. John, I'm not angry with you because you're disturbing our domestic bliss; I'm angry with you because you took so damn long!”

John surges forward, takes Alexander’s head in between his palms, and the next moment they are kissing, desperately, clinging to each other. Eliza is certain she's supposed to feel horrified or at least jealous. After all, a man she's met in person only now is currently kissing her husband like they are the only two people in the entire world. But this man is her husband’s second soulmate and she feels strangely at peace. For all Alexander’s righteous fury, there is a joy radiating from him as well. He is whole, with John here, in a way that Eliza had imagined but never fully comprehended. 

“Jack,” he’s saying, breathlessly, over and over between rapidfire kisses, and John is shushing him, whispering things too soft for Eliza to hear. 

They kiss for some time and Eliza is just beginning to wonder if they’ll be glued together like this for the rest of the afternoon when John breaks the kiss, whispers something in Alexander’s ear. Then he looks up and sees Eliza still standing there and his look of wide-eyed panic nearly makes Eliza giggle. 

“Alexander,” she says, “Should I leave the two of you alone?”

“What?” Alex replies, as if she has suggested something utterly ludicrous. “No, we have so much catching up to do! The two of you must get to know one another!” He looks from John to Eliza with such obvious devotion that Eliza can't help but smile and stroke the feather tattooed on her wrist. 

“Well,” Eliza says, “In that case, Colonel Laurens, you really ought to tell me about all of the trouble you and my husband got into during the war. Alexander has told me some things, but I am sure he has left some out.” 

John laughs, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “My dear Mrs. Hamilton. We’ll be here all night.” 

\---

Within days, it seems to Eliza that John has always been apart of their lives. To Eliza’s surprise, John begs off going to work right away with Alexander, citing that he still needs time to recover from his recent injury. He tells her, quietly, that he also has a desire to stay out of public society for a while. Though Eliza wonders if John won’t be bored, staying at home all day, Eliza doesn’t press and neither, to her surprise, does Alexander.

To be fair, John can do no wrong in Alexander’s eyes; once John explains the circumstances surrounding how his death came to be reported falsely, he is forgiven instantly. Eliza has known her husband in happiness; he was beaming from ear to ear the day of their marriage, and so too when he first held Philip. With John alive, well, and present, Alexander doesn’t just smile more often. He seems to glow, and the two of them seem to circle each other like magnets. 

That’s not to say that Alexander has been any less affectionate towards Eliza. In fact, if it were possible, Alexander has been even more affectionate with her. John will walk into town to fetch Alexander from work, which is the only semi-reliable method to get Alexander home at a reasonable hour, and they will return, laughing at some incident that happened at Alexander’s office that day, and stomping the snow from their boots in the entryway. Alexander will catch sight of Eliza and he’ll stride over to kiss her and mumble “I’m home,” against her lips. When he’s in a good mood, he presses kisses all over her face like an overly affectionate puppy. It is just like he told her, forever ago and yesterday, when he had first confided in her that he had a second soulmate. He loves John fiercely but his love for Eliza hasn’t diminished as a result. 

More than that, Eliza is beginning to enjoy spending time with John. It’s nice to have adult company around the house when Alexander is away at work, and John is eager to help, even though he is often clueless when it comes to completing household tasks. He’s a quick study, however, and tackles any job Eliza gives him with eagerness and determination. 

Perhaps John’s favorite role is that of babysitter. John takes to Philip immediately. He breaks into a big grin when he sees the child, and with Eliza's permission, scoops Philip from his crib and holds him in his arms. 

“Lord, but he looks just like his mother. He's beautiful," John says. "Ah, but he has his father's nose.” John bounces the tip of his finger against Philip’s nose, earning him a peal of laughter from the child. John laughs too, then turns to Eliza and says, grinning, “Did you know your husband wrote me a rather forward letter about the size of his nose?" 

"I hadn't known, but that seems like the sort of thing he would do," Eliza replies, amused, and resolves to bring this up to Alexander at the earliest opportunity. 

Philip babbles nonsense syllables in John's arms and John looks at him with tender affection. "He's perfect," he murmurs, "You must be so proud." 

"I am," says Eliza, "but I’m mostly tired. Philip doesn't tend to sleep well, so most nights I'm up with him. Alexander, as you know, is either awake and working or sleeping like the dead. I don't bother attempting to wake him when Philip cries; he needs the sleep and he has a tendency to worry. You should have seen him when Philip was born. Every cough and cry sent him into a tizzy." 

John smiles, but there's a tinge of sadness to it. "I can imagine," he says. Neither of them mention Alexander's childhood, but they don't need to. After a pause, John says, "I'd be happy to help with Philip. It's the least I can do to thank you for your hospitality Mrs. Hamilton." 

"You're family," Eliza says, "You needn't do anything to thank me. You're always welcome here. And please, call me Eliza." 

"Then you must call me John," he replies, and smiles. "It's no trouble. I want Philip and I to be good friends." 

And so they are. Philip is a good-natured child and though he can be a little shy around strangers, Philip quickly warms to John, and before long, he is crawling or toddling shakily after John all around the house, begging to be picked up. John has a talent for lulling Philip to sleep, and when Eliza’s bedtime songs don’t do the trick, John will step in and give his own rendition. 

In short, John is wonderful with Philip, and bashfully, he explains he had no small amount of practice as the oldest child in his family. 

Eliza smiles, and tells him, “I’m sure you’d be a wonderful father.” 

She doesn’t understand, then, why the color drains from John’s face and he makes a hasty excuse to leave the room. It is only when she happens to overhear a hushed, passionate conversation between John and Alexander later, that she begins to understand. 

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop; in fact, it had been her intention to enter the room and interrupt John and Alexander’s conversation. She pauses, just before the entryway, only because of the anguished tone in John’s voice. 

“My father was a better father to me than I've been to Frances,” John says, and Eliza freezes. Surely, she has misheard. John has never mentioned anything to her about a child, and they have spent enough time together by now that she knows all the particulars of his family. 

“Your father--”

“Was there,” John blurts, “Yes, he was distant at times, he's never been completely satisfied with me, he's never told me he's proud of me without some addendum about what I still need to improve about myself. But he was there. He raised me. I abandoned Frances before she was even born. I--I'm the worst sort of father.” 

Eliza can’t believe what she’s hearing. She can’t connect the idea that John abandoned a woman pregnant with his child to the man she knows, who is earnest and kind and looks at little Philip with clear adoration. She doesn’t know the circumstances, it’s true, but she can’t help but feel a little betrayed. She means to step out of hiding then, to confront John about what she’s heard and press for more details, but Alexander’s response makes her hesitate.

“You're wrong.” Alex insists, “I have empirical evidence. Namely, my own experience.” There is a pause. Eliza holds her breath. It’s rare that Alexander speaks of his past. “My father abandoned my family. I know what it's like to live without a father. When my mother and I were dying, he wasn't there. And after my mother died and I was an orphan, I could have used a father. And when the hurricane destroyed my town, I wrote him, though I knew better than to think my letter would move him to intercede in my life. He knew where to find me. And he didn't come.” There is another pause, and Eliza aches to embrace her husband, and hopes John is doing so in her stead. “John, you left Frances; it's true. But though it may be too late to make amends with your wife, Frances still has need of a father and you are willing to take up the mantle you once cast off. And you had far more noble reasons for not being with Frances than my father did. That is not insignificant.” 

“I can't see how she will ever forgive me.” John says, “Maybe if she were younger, but she is old enough now to understand that I was supposed to be father to her and I haven't been. I have no idea what Martha or my family might have told her about me.” 

“You will correct any misrepresentations there may have been. She is your daughter, John. Once you show her you care for her and are not intending to leave her, she will come to love you. I guarantee it.” 

John laughs, but it sounds frightfully hollow to Eliza. “Would that it were so easy as you make it seem, Ham.” 

“But it is!” Alex says, “My dear Laurens, you have seen the affect your presence has on me, a man who doesn't give his affection lightly. You have also seen how Betsey has become taken with you as a dear friend, despite the briefness of your acquaintance. And think of Lafayette, who loved you right away. You make friends easily and you are dear to everyone who knows you. I have no fear that you will fail to win over your daughter.” 

It is then that Eliza rounds the corner and steps into the room. John is seated on the couch, and Alexander is standing in front of him, his hands still finishing up their last gesture. John’s head snaps up and he jumps to his feet. Eliza notes with alarm that John’s eyes are wet with tears and in his agitation, he is clutching his shirt, beneath his left collarbone, the place where Alexander’s mark sits on his skin. “Eliza,” he says, weakly. “How much of our conversation did you hear?”

“Betsy-” Alexander says, raising his hands placatingly.

“John, why didn’t you tell me?” Eliza asks. John flinches and a tear escapes the corner of his eye and rolls down his cheek. Eliza strides over to him, past a frozen Alexander, and wraps her arms around John. He startles in surprise but slowly relaxes, wraps her arms around her in turn. They stand there embracing for a minute or so before Eliza judges that John has calmed some, and gently releases him. 

“Sit John,” she tells him, and he collapses back on the couch like a rag doll. She sits beside him and Alexander comes to sit on his other side and takes John’s hand. 

John takes a breath. "Eliza. I beg you please to tell me if your hospitality does not extend so far, but I have an obligation which I must fulfill. I must go and get my daughter. She is in England and I have too long been an absent figure in her life. If the idea of housing both myself and a child is too much to be borne, I understand and will seek other accommodations.” 

“John!” Alexander cries, “No, you must stay. Eliza, tell him!” 

“Are you married?” Eliza asks, her gaze never leaving John’s. 

"I was," says John, eyes downcast. "I was the worst sort of husband. I was not there for the birth. I had a chance to see her once, during the war, her and the child, but I didn’t go to her, focused as I was on the work I needed to do while I was in Europe." He swallows hard, "I-I wanted to bring her to this country, and attempted to get her passage, but it was difficult during the war to travel safely between England and America and the health of both my wife and my child were precarious even without such a voyage. We nearly arranged it, but her father objected in the end, and I could hardly fault his reasoning."

“Did you love her?” 

He hesitates a moment, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. His expression is one of painful earnestness when he says, "I. Yes, I loved her, but not in the way a man is meant to love his wife. I loved her as a dear friend. She didn't deserve a man like me for a husband. She knew my romantic inclinations were not...compatible with her, but she never spoke of it to anyone. She was a true friend to me.” 

"And she’s passed on?" Eliza asks, softly. 

"Illness took her," John replies, swallowing hard. "My sister has my daughter Frances in her care." 

“How old is she?” Eliza asks. 

“Six. I was—” He laughs, unhappily. “—very young and foolish when she was conceived.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Eliza asks, gently. “I know we haven’t known each other long, John, but I feel we know each other well, and you’ve told me so much about your family.”

“If it helps,” Alexander pipes up, grinning wryly. “I only found out by accident and we had known each other for far longer than you’ve known John.” 

“I’m sorry,” John says, looking between Alex and Eliza and then down at his lap. “It’s hard for me to talk about it. I’ve made so many mistakes and I’m ashamed of them. I-I wanted you to like me.” 

“Oh Jack,” Eliza says, softly. She’s never called him Jack before, and even Alexander uses the nickname sparingly, but it feels right to use it in that moment, and she’s proven right when John looks up at her and gives her a watery close-lipped smile. “Of course I like you. You and your daughter are always welcome here.” 

John startles, the little smile frozen on his face, and Eliza realizes that he’d actually thought she’d turn him out. She recalls, in that moment, what John has told her about his life before the war. John’s mother died when he was sixteen. Afterwards, he’d gone to school in Europe and had been to the family home for only a handful of short visits since. She wonders if there’s been anywhere he’s thought of of home since his mother’s passing, and she becomes even more resolved to make him feel comfortable living here. 

“See!” Alex crows, grinning, “Eliza likes you, I like you. Philip likes you! It’s decided. You’re staying. You and Frances.” He gives John a look, daring him to argue. 

“Thank you,” John says, softly, and his ensuing smile reaches his eyes. “I’m glad to stay.” 

\---

John is nervous, but more than that, he’s angry with himself for being nervous. It’s unfair of him. He had been entirely absent in his child’s life for six years and now he’s anxious to meet her, fretting that she won’t like him. When he’d written his sister to tell her he was intending to take over care of his daughter, he’d begged her for every detail she could think of about Frances. Was she healthy or would she need special care? What sort of things did she like to eat? What were her favorite games and how did she occupy her free time? Mostly, he wanted to know what sort of person she was. She was still very much a child but at six years old, she would have much more independence and personality then little Philip. 

That frightened him most of all. It meant she was capable of hating him, resenting him, and rejecting him, and he’s not sure what he’ll do if she does. John doesn’t regret devoting his body and mind to the revolution, could never regret it, but he’s realized six years too late that he wants to be a part of Frances’ life, and he’d squandered all this time that he could have spent, if not with her, then at least playing a larger role in her life.

When he arrives at his sister’s door, he pauses, trying to slow the rapid beating of his heart. He takes a deep breath, wipes his sweaty hands on his breaches, and knocks. He only has to wait a moment before the door is flung open and Martha Laurens Ramsay is flinging herself at him at top speed. 

“Idiot!” she shouts in his ear, even as she hugs him with obvious desperation. “Oh Jack, you idiot!” 

“Shh,” John says, hugging her back. He hadn’t realized how much he’s missed his sister nor how difficult it must have been for her, thinking he’d died, until this moment. “It’s alright. I’m here.” 

They embrace for some time before Martha, sniffling, steps back and gives him a once over. She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you. Only you would somehow come back from the dead and show up looking better than the last time I saw you.” 

“Better?” John asks, confused. He knows he’s filled out again since he’s been with the Hamilton’s, and he’s all but recovered from what was nearly a fatal wound, the only reminder the angry red puckered scar on his abdomen, but he’s still working to get back to the level of physical fitness he was in before he was injured. 

“Happier,” Martha amends. She smoothes her hands down his arms, then steps back to give him a once over. “You look good Jack.” 

“Thank you,” John stutters out, still a little lost. “So do you.” It’s a gut reaction to return the compliment but as he says the words, he realizes they’re true. Martha’s curls are a little untidy, strands escaping from her bun and John notices a toy soldier peeking out from one of her apron pockets. Mostly, she looks older. Motherly. Grown up. He has to swallow a swell of emotion that threatens to sneak up his throat. 

She scoffs. “Flattery doesn’t work on me Jack.” 

“I mean it Patsy,” John says and smiles at her. “It’s good to see you.”

“Oh stop that,” she says, but John doesn’t miss the way her hand comes up to wipe at the corner of her eye before she turns around and heads back inside the house, calling a brisk, “Are you coming?” over her shoulder to him. 

He follows her inside, taking his time to admire the inside of the house. It’s nothing as grand as Mepkin, but it’s a nice house and John can’t help but feel pride that his sister lives so well. Any measure of peace he’s gained with that thought is promptly popped like a soap bubble when Martha calls, “Franny! Your father’s here!” 

The clatter of running feet belies Frances’ approach and John panics. ‘I’m not ready,’ he thinks, stupidly, because even after the long voyage here, the years of separation, he couldn't even manage to convince himself that he’ll be a competent father. 

A little face peeks around a doorway. The first thing John notices is that Frances looks a great deal like Martha. Frances has the same wavy light brown hair as her mother and the little frown fixed on her face is the very one that would be on Martha’s face when she was focused on a particularly vexing task. The rest of the child appears more slowly as she creeps from around the corner. She’s careful not to meet John’s eyes, but it’s clear she’s watching him. 

“Say hello to your father,” Martha urges Frances, who has come to stand by Martha’s side, and at last the little girl lifts her gaze. John startles. He’d been expecting her eyes to be brown, like her mother’s, but instead, they’re his own bright green eyes. Here he was thinking she looked so like her mother, but there are his eyes, his nose, his skin tone.

“Hello,” Frances chirps, grabbing John’s attention. “Do you have any scars?”

“Uh,” John stutters, completely thrown, “Sorry?”

Frances sighs impatiently. “Y’know. From the war n’ all. Auntie says you were hurt pretty bad. She says you got hurt a lot. Are you clumsy or something? Is that how come you always got hurt in the war? Or did you just not know how to be safe?”

John laughs. “Yes I have scars.” He untucks his shirt from his trousers and lifts it so that she can see his most recent one. “And no, I don’t think I’m clumsy. I’m just not very good at staying out of trouble.” 

Frances eyes the scar with no small amount of awe and John wonders if the toy soldier in Martha’s apron belongs to Frances. He hadn’t considered the idea, but now that he thinks of it, he recalls that Martha’s only child is only a baby and much too young to be playing with a toy that chewable.

“Oh. Okay,” Frances says matter of factly. “Are we really going to go to America?” 

“Yes,” John tells her, “That’s where you’re going to live. Just me, you, and some very important people. You’ll like it there.” 

“Will I meet General Washington?” Frances asks, with no small amount of excitement. 

John has to laugh. He squats so he can get closer to Frances’ level, presses a finger to his lips, and winks, “Maybe,” he says, “if you’re really good.”

Frances gapes at him, frozen for a moment, then all at once the spell is broken and she cries, “Wait for me! I have to get my bag!” over her shoulder as she dashes back the way she had come. 

“I hope you know that’s all she’s going to be talking about on the trip over,” Martha says, shaking her head. “Apparently, once she was old enough to ask about you, her mother told her war stories. I have no idea how much of it was truth, but based on what she’s told me, it seems her mother abridged the more gruesome parts. Frances loves playing George Washington.” 

“I guess I’ll have to call in some favors,” says John, “I happen to be living with his favorite aide.” 

“Tell me about that,” says Martha, crossing her arms, “You were terribly vague in your letters. Be honest with me--is this your way of avoiding Father?” 

John bites his lip. There’s a pile of letters sitting in his bedroom at the Hamilton’s from his father. He’s read them and replied to some, but all he’s really done is reassure his father he’s doing well and that he intends to visit, without specifying a date or time. He can’t deny that avoiding his father was part of the reason he’d wanted to leave South Carolina as soon as he was well enough, but at the same time, if Alex had for some reason been at Mepkin, he would have gone, Henry Laurens be damned. It just so happened that seeing Alex and avoiding his father were both possible if he rode for New York instead of returning home. 

“Alex is my soulmate,” John says, quietly. “I’ve known for a while. He’s known for sure since Yorktown.” 

“Oh,” says Martha, more of an exhale than a word. “The lighthouse?”

John nods. “I’m happy,” John blurts out, “I’m really, truly happy. The Hamiltons have invited me to stay with them, indefinitely. With Frances. I don’t know what I’ll end up doing for work but I mean to accept their offer.” 

“Good,” says Martha, “I’m glad.” A pause. “But what will you do about Father? You can’t put off visiting forever and he’ll be loathe to let you leave once you arrive either.”

John sighs. “I’ll visit him eventually. And once I do, I’ll be honest with him.” 

“You can’t just ignore this Jack,” Martha says, shaking her head. “You should address this now, or he’ll come to you. He’s upset enough that you left Carolina before visiting him and he’s growing more impatient to see you the longer you put it off.”

“I know,” John snaps. He feels immediately awful for it, and takes a breath. “I know,” he says, softer, restrained. “I’ll visil him, I promise. I just need to figure out a few things first. It would be easier if I had my life put together before we talk in person.”

Martha gives him an unimpressed look but John is spared from any further uncomfortable conversation when Frances rounds the corner again, clutching a little satchel. 

“Let’s go!” she says, running to John and tugging at his pant leg. “We’re gonna be late!” 

“Late for what, Frances?” John asks, catching Martha’s eye. Martha shrugs, apparently as lost as he is. 

“The ship to America of course,” Frances says, and gives John’s pant leg another determined tug. “We have to go or they’ll leave without us!” Well, John supposes it’s a good thing she’s excited and isn’t dreading the trip like he’d feared. 

John drops down to crouch on his level. “Frances, the ship isn’t leaving today. We’ll be staying here for a few days while I visit with your Aunt and get to know you before we leave.” 

“Oh,” says Frances, lower lip pouting. “You shoulda said so!” She wanders over to Martha and deposits the satchel into her hand, apparently finished with it. “Can I go play with the baby?” 

“Only if you’re gentle,” Martha replies, but before she’s even finished speaking Frances has already dashed from the room. 

“Will she be alright?” John asks, with some concern. He’s already gotten the sense that Frances is a ball of energy and he’s not sure he trusts her around a baby, but Martha doesn’t appear worried.

Martha nods. “I’ll show you.” 

She leads John to the nursery and motions for him to step inside. There’s Frances, cradling the baby in her arms. John watches with amazement the careful way Frances holds the child, making sure to support the head. He never would have suspected Frances could be so gentle judging by the little he’s gleaned of her personality so far, and he can’t help but feel impressed. She’s even singing nursery rhymes. John steps further into the room and Frances looks up. 

“Oh,” she says, “Did you wanna meet Nellie? She’s a really good baby. That’s what Auntie says and I think so too.” She holds out the child to John and John nods, and reaches out to take the baby. 

John’s niece is named Eleanor, after John’s mother. Martha had been only eleven years old when their mother died, but Martha was old enough to have grieved for their mother the way that John had. It had been so hard when John had left for school in Europe and he and Martha had been separated. Martha had been the only person he could talk to her about their mother. Their younger brothers, particularly James, were young enough that they weren’t as affected and Mary Eleanor was just a baby. Their father just stopped talking about his wife entirely; it was like she’d never existed at all. 

“She’s wonderful,” John says, softly, looking at Martha, and the softness in her eyes means she knows what he’s thinking of. “I’m so glad I get to meet her.” 

It’s the wrong thing to say, and John knows it the moment the words leave his mouth. Martha looks away and takes a shaky, uneven breath. It’s like being shot all over again, except that he doesn’t pass out right away, and he can feel every stab of agony without the numbing influence of adrenaline and blood loss. “I’m glad too,” she says, weakly, and hurries from the room. 

“What’s wrong with Auntie?” Frances asks, alarmed, looking at John with her wide brown eyes. 

“Your father’s an idiot,” says John, and shakes his head. “Take Nellie. I need to speak with your Aunt.” 

\---

The house never felt so empty and Alexander hates the sensation. His longing for John is somehow more intense because John’s attainable now. He’s alive. Just the thought sends a rush of desperate relief through Alex and an eagerness to see John again, safe and whole and happy. But Alex expected this feeling; he’d been dreading it since he first worked out John was planning to leave for England. What he hadn’t anticipated was the change in Eliza. 

When Alex complains to her that she misses John, her smile goes soft and sad when she replies, “I know. I miss him too.” He starts noticing little things after that. She’s quieter, smiles less readily at his jokes. When Philip gestures to be picked up and then whimpers unhappily upon being lifted into Eliza’s arms, Alex hears her tell him, “I’m sorry, darling, he’s not here. He’ll be back soon.” The heartbreak in her voice has Alex rushing over to embrace her. 

Alexander is pleased John and Eliza have formed a friendship so quickly but he has to admit, he’s a bit puzzled. The only time he’s seen Eliza react like this is when Angelica had left for England. And Angelica and Eliza are sisters, practically tied together at the hip. Eliza and John have hardly known each other a month. The way she’s reacting, it’s like she’s feeling John’s absence as keenly as Alex is. 

That thought suddenly sparks an idea. He has no way to confirm his suspicions now but it would make sense. Would it be ridiculously convenient? Incredibly so. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up. And yet, the possibility exists. He doesn’t know where John’s second mark is or what shape it’s taken, but he’s willing to bet it’s a seashell on the side of his ankle. 

It seems to take years but finally, finally they’re expecting John and Frances to arrive any moment. Eliza had been cleaning the house top to bottom and Alexander had had to sit on her lap to keep her from dusting every square inch. He’s a hypocrite though, because now that she’s finally sitting on the couch, he’s up and pacing, his eyes anxiously flicking to the door every time he passes it. 

At last, he can hear the clatter of hooves, then John’s voice, though Alex can’t make out through the door what he’s saying. It takes everything in him not to fling open the door and sprint down the front walk. As it is, he opens the door quicker than he normally would, and half jogs over to John’s carriage. 

There’s a little girl at John’s side who must be Frances. She’s his spitting image, especially when she catches sight of him and smiles, a dimple appearing at the corner of her mouth and her whole face lighting up. 

“You’re him!” She cries, with delight. Then her face twists in consideration. “You’re shorter than I expected.”

John bursts into delighted laughter and Alex face burns. Good lord, he forgot how blunt children can be. He takes it in stride though, bows dramatically to Frances and kisses her little hand. “Alexander Hamilton. At your service my dear.” 

She giggles. “Frances Laurens,” she says. “Did you really fight in the war with my daddy?”

“Of course,” Alexander replies, “He was the most enthusiastic soldier I’ve ever encountered.”

Frances nods seriously. “Uh huh. That’s how come he has so many scars.” 

Before Alexander has time to even begin to unpack that, John strokes the back of Frances’ head, smoothing down her hair, which looks a bit of a mess; she must have been sleeping strangely in the carriage to make her wavy hair stand up in chunks the way it is. “Come on Frances. Let’s get you inside. Would you like to look around?”

Frances nods. She pauses only long enough to curtsy politely and before she dashes headlong towards the house. ‘Well,’ Alexander thinks ruefully, ‘The house definitely won’t feel too quiet anymore.’ 

Frances very nearly barrels into Eliza, who has been waiting by the door. “Oh,” Frances says, and freezes. “Are you Mrs. Hamilton?”

“Yes,” says Eliza, smiling, “but you may call me Eliza, if you like.” 

“Papa!” Frances calls, whirling around, “Papa, Miss Eliza is so nice, just like you said! But you didn’t say she was so pretty!” 

John laughs again, and the sound of it drives Alex to distraction. John is happy, so full of life, and Alex’s heart feels full to bursting. The next moment, John’s smiling broadly at him and Alexander tugs him in for a hug, relishing the familiar feel of him. 

“I’m here, Hammie,” John says softly, and it’s the best feeling in the world.

They cling to each other, both unwilling to release the other fully, even as they head back through the front walk and into the house. 

Eliza is waiting there, sans Frances, who must have run off to explore. She steps over and Alex releases John so Eliza can give John her own hug. “Welcome home,” Eliza tells John, and John beams. 

“Thank you,” he tells her, “It’s good to be back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read this far. I want to send a special thanks to those who chose to leave a kudos or comment on the first part of this fic! This was such a passion project for me so it makes me very happy that other people are liking this. I hope all of you enjoyed the second chapter. I plan to have the third and final chapter up around this time next week.
> 
> For those who didn't go crazy after listening to/watching Hamilton and read a ton of historical letters/documentaries etc. like I did, [ here](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0100) is the letter John got from Alex on the subject of Alex's nose that John mentions to Eliza. This also happens to be the famous "Cold in my professions" letter AND the letter where Alex makes it clear he knows about John's wife and daughter. It's a doozy. You can find other letters they exchanged on this website, including Alex's final letter to John, which historically, we're pretty sure John never got to read.
> 
> Also, if you haven't heard of Kościuszko, please look him up. He was a crazy cool dude who happened to have known both John Laurens and Thomas Jefferson. He actually tried to use his will to convince Jefferson to free his slaves which is a power move if I've ever heard one. 
> 
> Next time: Eliza stands her ground, John comes to a realization, and Alex is smug.


	3. The Fight For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza and John find their way.

Frances settles in startlingly well. It’s not always easy. John knows so little about her and the same is true in reverse. They started to learn each other over the voyage home to America, but even so, they have a long way to come. Still, John is hopeful. It’s not a feeling he’s accustomed to, but he’s felt it more and more since he’s arrived here. Home. It still feels a bit like he’s in the middle of a very good dream. 

The only thing that remains to settle is his father. Henry Laurens hangs over him like a spectre. John hasn’t forgotten what Martha had told him. She was right, as she often is. He needs to visit his father. He owes him that. John knows he’s never fully pleased his father and he’s certain his father won’t be happy with him when he discovers what John has been doing the past few months, which amounts to nothing professionally speaking. Still, John also knows that his father loves him. For all their arguments, for all the times John has disappointed his father, he knows that Henry Laurens cares for John as his oldest son. He knows his father grieved for him. It’s isn’t fair of him to deny his father the solace of seeing John is alive. Letters can only go so far. He can’t allow his own cowardice to hurt the people he cares for. Not anymore. 

But before he can visit, he needs to be honest. He’s been incredibly vague in his prior letters to his father. He hadn’t mentioned he was staying with his soulmate’s family; he hasn’t even told his father that Alexander is his soulmate yet. He also hasn’t made mention of the fact that he has been technically unemployed and hasn’t been doing much of anything to further his career. Seeing his father is going to be hard enough on it’s own; John wants to be transparent about these things before he arrives, so he can hopefully avoid at least some of the fallout.

The trouble, of course, is that he’s never been a prolific letter writer and now, knowing that he needs to write his father and attempt to explain what he’s been doing all this time, all the words have dried up. His mental quill is dry. He has no earthly idea what to say and knowing that what he wants to say isn’t at all what his father wants to read isn’t helping. He sighs heavily through his nose, crumples up the still ink-wet remains of his latest draft, and goes to check in on Frances. 

She’s with Philip, the two of them giggling, chasing each other around the room. They like playing redcoats and George Washington, and of course Phillip is always relegated the dastardly British role, but all he really knows is that he gets to chase Frances, shouting, and so accepts the role with relish. John can’t help the fond smile that comes to his face, watching them from the doorway. He doesn’t stay and make his presence known but he does linger, enjoying watching them play. The fact that they get along well has made this big transition in both John’s life and Frances’ much easier. He had just meant to check on them, so eventually, he pulls himself away, and returns to his primary goal.

John finds Eliza in the garden. She’s often found there; she has a great love for plants and she’s patient and gentle when it comes to tending to her garden, as she is in most things. She’s told him before that she gets a great deal of joy in watching the plants sprout and bloom after seeing them begin their life as tiny seeds. Eliza is currently kneeling in the slightly wet earth, though whether she’s planting or weeding John’s not entirely sure. When she sees him approaching, she stands, wiping the dirt from her apron and smiling brightly at him. 

“Hello John,” she says, “I was just planting those new seeds we bought the other day. I do hope the weather holds so they can start to grow properly.” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and brushes some remaining dirt from her hands across her cheek as she does so. It’s incredibly endearing, and somehow, it makes him feel more confident that he’s made the right choice to come to Eliza about this.

John could quite easily and comfortably chat with her, make idle talk about the garden, but he feels that if he doesn’t start talking about what he wants to now, he won’t be able to work up the nerve again. It’s easy to talk with Eliza about just about anything, but John’s never been good about talking about personal things with anyone. “Eliza, I--Forgive me, I’d like to ask you a rather odd question.” John sighs. Tripping over his own tongue isn’t a good start to this conversation at all. He is already regretting opening his mouth. But there’s nothing for it now.

Eliza’s smile of greeting changes to a serious expression as he talks but when he finishes, she shakes her head and her smile is back, though this one is gentler. “It’s alright. Ask your question John, and I will do my best to answer it.”

John bites his lip. He doesn’t know what his question is, not really. “I’ve decided--I have to--” He groans, frustrated, and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m writing to my father. I have to go and visit him. I’ve been putting it off. And before I do, I’d like to explain to him what I’ve been doing. Who I’ve been with. I haven’t been entirely honest about that.” John bites his lip. He’s not sure why he’s struggling so much with this. It should have been easy, to write to his father. “I don’t know what to write. Every time I try, my mind goes blank. What do you suggest I include in my letter?” 

Eliza takes a few steps closer to him, but they’re still a few feet apart. She’s giving him space and John isn’t sure whether to be grateful for it or not. Stupidly, he wants her to embrace him, and though he knows Eliza would not hesitate to provide one, he’s never been one to . 

“Well,” says Eliza, her tone even and gentle, “what do you want your father to take from your letter?”

John shakes his head. “With my father, you can’t just write what you want to say. Most of the difficulty in writing to him is predicting what he wants to hear and trying to get your point across in a way he’ll accept. In the past, I’d try to fill the letter with a great deal of information and hide a quick sentence or two in between, if I was attempting to convey information I knew he would not like. But I have nothing of import to tell him outside my own circumstances.” 

“I didn’t ask about what he wants to hear,” replies Eliza. She steps in closer, though still, she doesn’t reach out to him. She does, however, meet his eyes. “I asked what you want to convey to him. Just forget about what he will or will not care to read for a moment.” 

John pauses a moment to think. Eliza waits, and through her eyes are on him the entire time, he never feels pressured. Her eyes don’t bore into your soul like Alex’s do; instead, her gaze is encouraging and reassuring. John takes a deep breath. “I want him to know that I’m happy here with you and Alex and Philip and Frances. It’s not the sort of life he imagined for me, and it’s not the life I pictured for myself, either, but. I think I’m the happiest I’ve been since I was a child. Maybe even more so.” 

Eliza beams. “Oh John, I’m so happy to hear that. I’m happy too. It’s strange, but when I met Alexander, I felt I’d known him all my life. It felt as if I was just waiting for him to show up and everything would fall into place. And when you returned into Alexander’s life, I could see it between the two of you too. He was complete with you. I didn’t realize how much you’d come to mean to me then, but I liked you right away, and I knew you’d become an important person in my life.” 

“I know what you mean,” John replies. “I can’t believe I was so worried about meeting you, how much I fretted about how you might replace me in Alex’s eyes. It seems so ridiculous now that I know you.” 

Eliza’s smile quirks in amusement. “As flattered as I am, John, we’re getting away from our original topic. Did you want me to read you letter when you write it?” 

John shakes his head. “No, if you don’t mind, I think-I think I’d rather do this on my own. Not that I don’t trust you, I just--” 

“I understand,” Eliza tells him, and John smiles, because he knows by the tone of her voice that she’s sincere. She’s not hurt by his refusal at all, not like Alex would be, even if he pretended otherwise.

“Thank you,” says John, and he means for everything. For Eliza’s kindness in opening her home to him, for his understanding of his need for Alexander’s time, for allowing him this moment of peace in his turbulent life, when he’d done nothing to deserve it but show up at her doorstep and beg to see her husband. 

Eliza’s eyes are soft and she leans in, presses a kiss to John’s cheek. “No, John, thank you.” 

They sit together in the garden for some minutes after that, enjoying the clear weather and the bird song. There’s silence between them. It feels comfortable, safe. That night, John finishes his letter. Eliza doesn’t ask him about it, except to ask him if he finished. When he replies affirmatively, she says, “I’m proud of you.” And John believes her.

\---

John’s dreams go like this. They start innocent, domestic even. Alex is there, at his side. Perhaps he’s talking, and John is nodding along, engaged in what he’s saying except for the little part of his brain he reserves for just taking Alex in: his gesturing hands with stubby nails made shorter by his habit of chewing them, his eyes alight with excitement and passion and sometimes passionate outrage, his mouth, grinning cheekily or grimacing or curled in a snarl. 

John’s siblings usually don’t feature in these dreams, not because he doesn’t care about them, but because they would seem out of place. He hasn’t seen most of them in so long now besides Martha, who lives in England. If any of his siblings were with him, he’d know immediately it was a dream, and the ruse his own brain has constructed for him wouldn’t be half as effective. 

There are three new additions to his regular nightmares. Before, Alex was the only stable in his life, and the only person he’d live and die for beyond the members of his immediate family. Now, there are others. Eliza is walking with them, on Alex’s other side, watching Alex speak with an equal mix of exasperation and affection. Every so often, she catches John’s eye and rolls her eyes, or smiles, and John always smiles back. Philip is in her arms, foregoing the pram for the moment. He’s contented and quiet, curiously watching the world around them with bright large eyes. And then there is Frances, sitting in the crook of John’s arm and resting against his hip. She’s asleep, her head pressed against her chest, still firmly clutching a little model soldier in one fist. 

They are walking through town, towards home, and Alex is carrying his briefcase, so perhaps John and Eliza had taken the children with them and walked to the center of town to meet Alex after work. It is a pleasant night, a slight breeze making the leaves on the trees rustle but nothing more. They are clad in coats and there is no cold to nip at John’s hands or cheeks. There are others out, enjoying the good weather or perhaps on their way to a store. Those that acknowledge them give a friendly wave or smile. Those that don’t continue on their way and do not disturb them. 

From there, things go wrong. 

It starts small. No dramatic gun fire or screaming. Just the sky gradually darkening. Just the world around them shrinking from a busy street full of friendly strangers to empty, inky blackness. But they are still together, the five of them, and Alex, at the head of the pack, but only a step ahead of John, continues to lead them forward, without a care in the world. 

John hesitates, which is something he is hardly known for in the waking world, but he is wary of continuing to march blindly into the blackness. He turns his head back, trying to see if perhaps there is light behind them. In the next moment, the ground beneath him, which had gone from the crunch of gravel to a smooth cold plane of black glass, becomes a viscous ooze. His boots began to sink and it becomes harder and harder to lift his feet, the soles of his booths becoming more and more mired. He calls out to Eliza, to Alex, but they don’t seem to hear him, don’t in fact seem to realize anything is wrong at all. They are now more than a few paces ahead of him, and they continue on, walking steadily away from him. His legs weigh a thousand pounds. He calls, screams, until his voice is hoarse, begs them to turn around, but they don’t even turn their heads to look back. Soon, he cannot walk at all, and he begins to sink, slowly at first, but then steadily. 

Frances is still asleep in his arms, seemingly deaf to his desperate cries. He shakes her, begs her to wake up and run, but she doesn’t stir, her breaths even and deep against his chest. As the pitch black mud rises, covering his legs and climbing his torso, he lifts Frances above his head, desperate to save her, knowing with an unshakeable instinct that he can’t allow this substance to touch her. She slumbers on, while John is slowly consumed. He screams until his mouth is blocked and he is choking on it, the texture and taste like tar. He watches, incapable of doing anything to stop it, as the blackness rises steadily onwards, towards Frances, until it overtakes his eyes too. There is a deep unnatural silence, a steady unnatural darkness, and John is dying, but not quickly. He has the strange but unquestionable knowledge that he will live like this for years, buried alive, separated from all he loves and all who love him. 

He wakes. He does not regain his senses quickly, too lost to wild hysteria. His limbs flail, without his consent, and he realizes he is screaming, a hoarse, horrific noise. Next, he becomes conscious of the wetness on his cheeks. Tears. He clamps his mouth shut, bites his lip so viciously he can feel the skin break, and tastes salt on his tongue. His limbs cease their wild waving but he cannot make them still. He is trembling. 

Worse yet, he has quelled the sounds of his terror too late. An instant later, his bedroom door bursts open and Alex dashes in, Eliza at her husband’s side. While Alex’s expression is filled with alarm, Eliza’s is strangely calm. She steps into the room, but lingers by the doorway while Alex crawls onto John’s bed, wiping the tears from John’s cheeks with such force that John nearly winces. 

“Jack,” Alex murmurs to him, as if speaking to a startled animal, “Jack, you’ve had a dream. You’re alright. You’re safe.”

“Alex,” John tries, and coughs, trying to clear the waver from his voice, “‘M fine. Just a dream, ‘s all, like you said. Sorry I disturbed y’all.” He glances at Eliza, who is still lingering just outside the doorway. She must be feeling the chill, standing there clad only in her nightgown, because she’s got her arms crossed and one bare foot on top of the other in an effort to warm them.

“Don’t give me that,” Alex demands, then seems to recall his earlier tactic of gentle reassurance, and his volume decreases exponentially. “Did you, uh, want to talk about it?” 

“No,” John murmurs, “It wasn’t all that exciting, really.” 

“Was it the war? Was it...were you at the Combahee?” Alex asks, and John startles, because he hadn’t even considered how strange it is that his nightmares never center around his near death experience. John should, by all rights, have dreams of being shot down on the battlefield. He’d come so close to oblivion, to never meeting Eliza or Philip or Frances. John’s never been afraid of death before. He’d dreamed of it, some nights, before and during the war, and he’d relished the opportunity to give his life for his country. Now, he finds he is afraid of death, but not for its own sake. He’s afraid of losing those he loves most in the world, whether through death or some other means. That is the idea that haunts him now.

John shakes his head. “No,” he says. “but I’d prefer not to dwell on it, all the same.” He can feel Eliza’s eyes on him before she steps forward and reaches over to take his hand. 

“John, come to bed,” she says, and smiles, “You’ll feel better there.” 

John stares over at Eliza, not quite believing his ears. John has had his own room since he’s arrived here and he’d had no expectation that would change. Sleeping in Eliza and Alex’s marriage bed seems a bit sacrilegious. But then, Alex had invited him in already, in a way, in that rather forward letter that preceded Alex’s wedding, though both of them knew at the time it was very likely John would be unable to attend. 

John doesn’t reply, just slowly stands, lets Eliza take his hand and tug him gently but firmly down the hall towards the master bedroom. As they pass Frances’ room, John hesitates. It’s barely a moment, but Eliza, shrewd as ever, notices, and changes course, opens the bedroom door and leads John inside. Frances is asleep, somehow completely oblivious to the events taking place down the hall. 

John stands there, watching the slow steady rise of her chest, feeling terribly aware of how fragile Frances is, how easy it would be for someone to hurt her. It’s true that he hasn’t know her long, because he’s been a selfish fool, but he loves her so much that there’s an aching pull in his chest whenever he thinks of her. But here she is, asleep and peaceful. Safe.

At last, he manages to pull himself away, nods gratefully at Eliza, and she takes his hand again and continues to lead him in their journey to the master bedroom. John has only been in this room a handful of times and never for very long. One side of the bed is practically overflowing with pillows, while the other has only one that appears to be shoved towards the edge of the bed. It makes John smile. 

Alex dramatically claims the center of the bed, diving onto it and beckoning John over. Gingerly, John climbs on the side that he pegs as Alex’s and Eliza goes towards the other side of the bed. It’s a chilly night and though John had been sweating when he’d woken, he’s cold now, and eager to slide under the comforter. With the three of them settled in, it’s warm, but not overly so. Alex seems to have a conflict of interest, looking from Eliza to John. John can’t help but snicker. Alex likes to cling to his bed partner and evidently he had some difficulty now that he had options. He settles on John, cuddling up close, tucking his head beneath John’s chin, and John wraps his arms around him in return, grateful for the affection. Alex is real and solid in his arms and it chases the lingering fears of his dream away.

“I won’t let go,” Alex whispers, “Not ever.” And John kisses the top of his head, because he doesn’t trust his voice not to break. 

It’s the best night sleep John’s had in years and when he wakes, Alex is still snoring loudly in his arms, and Eliza smiles at him from her veritable mountain of pillows. He hadn’t realized it was possible to feel so tranquil, so empty of worry and fear. He smiles back. 

\---

Henry Laurens arrives on a Friday afternoon. They get advanced word, luckily, from an equally unexpected but rather more welcome guest. It’s been drizzling steadily all morning, not enough to be called a rain, but present enough to be an annoyance to anyone standing outside too long. John hasn’t followed Alexander to his office, so they’ve spent much of the day doing chores around the house and entertaining the children, who are a little restless having been denied the chance to romp out of doors. 

They aren’t anticipating any guests today, but Eliza is used to unexpected calls from Alexander’s business partners, so she isn’t all that surprised when she hears a rap on the door. When she opens the door, though, she is surprised to find a young man of eighteen or so, his crisp clothes and appearance speaking of a monied life. His face, which appears quite blank at first glance, lights up in a beaming smile when he catches sight of her, and Eliza realizes she recognizes the smile, if nothing else. 

“John,” she calls, over her shoulder, and John appears quickly, sensing the urgency in his voice.

“Harry!” John cries, as soon as he catches sight of the boy at the door, and dashes past Eliza to embrace his brother, jubilant with happiness. Harry, John’s younger brother by ten years or so by Eliza’s estimation, is inches taller than John and wider besides, but his face has a youthful innocence that can only be found on John’s face in rare flashes. John’s excitement in seeing his brother is clearly mutual; Harry’s smile is huge and his eyes are closed, cheek pressed against the side of John’s head. 

“Good lord, look at you! You’ve gotten tall!” John says as he pulls back from the hug, inspecting Harry up and down and Eliza can’t help but laugh, because he sounds such the doting older brother. “Come in, come in, you must meet the Hamiltons!” Harry is ushered inside, where he bows to Eliza, looking earnest and slightly nervous. 

“Hello, ma’am,” Harry says, politely and entirely too stiffly. 

“Oh none of that now,” says Eliza, smiling. “You’re John’s brother, which makes you family.” 

Instead of being bolstered by the sentiment, Harry seems to grow even more shy and bashful besides, and he doesn’t meet Eliza’s eyes when he says, “Thank you ma’am.” 

John claps his brother on the back, though Eliza notes he does so quite gently, and guides Harry into their sitting room. 

“I missed you terribly Jack,” says Harry, when Eliza busies herself making tea in the kitchen and pretends rather effectively, she might add, to not be eavesdropping. “With you gone, Father has been extra hard on me, and because of your help I’ve gotten much better in my lessons, but now he’s on about marriage.” Harry’s voice is much more animated when he’s speaking with John than when Eliza had also been in the room, and there’s less hesitation in his movements. It’s sweet.

John shakes his head. “I’ll set him right. You’re far too young to be worrying about all that.” John lowers his voice and leans in so that Eliza can’t make out his words. 

Harry nods. “‘Fraid so Jack. Once he got your letter, there was no stopping him. He wouldn’t even write back, just insisted on coming straight away.”

John stops himself halfway through a curse, looking guiltily at Harry, though the boy is more than old enough to be familiar with that word, and sighs, loudly. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it then. Thank you for the warning Harry. Will you stay on until he arrives?”

Harry shakes his head. “He’ll be expecting me back. I only told him I’d run ahead and tell you we were coming. I think he expects me to report back and tell him how you’re getting on before he sees you himself. He’s told me in no uncertain terms he wants to speak to you alone.”

“Best go then,” John says, and they both get to their feet, but John doesn’t let Harry leave before pulling into a hug. It’s a sweet scene and it makes a part of Eliza ache for her sisters. She can’t imagine how she would feel if she thought one of them had died, only for them to return, good as new. Harry looks at John like he’d hung the moon, with unrestrained adoration, and John looks back with equal affection and a near fatherly pride. 

When Harry leaves, waving at John as he strides down the street, John watches him go, then sighs heavily. All at once, he goes from the strong and proud big brother to the world weary veteran. “Eliza, my father is coming here. Tonight. It was foolish of me to think he wouldn’t do this when he got my letter. I know I don’t have any right to ask this of you, or of Alex, but I’d like for him to see that I’m doing well and…”

“We will certainly look and behave our best, if that’s what you mean,” Eliza says, her mind already jumping to planning her outfit, a meal, what will need tidying most urgently before the arrival of Henry Laurens Senior. 

John shakes his head, “Thank you, but that wasn’t exactly what I meant. My father is a master at getting his own way and he’s ruthless about it. He’s going to try to convince me to go back to South Carolina with him. I’ve been lazy, while I’ve been staying here; I haven’t even held a proper job. He’ll see it as wasted potential.” 

“Don’t worry about him,” says Eliza, smiling ruefully. She has a few things she wants to say to John’s father and some twisted part of her is rather looking forward to his imminent arrival. “You have been recovering and being a father to Frances and helping me around the house and with Philip besides. You are not lazy John Laurens; indeed, a rather think you’re often too ambitious for your own good.” 

John laughs. “I appreciate your saying so Eliza. In any case, I apologize in advance for any unpleasantness tonight. My father and I have been butting heads for years and one thing I did inherit from him was his temper.” John sighs, shakes his head. “I just hope Alex doesn’t escalate the situation.” 

“There’s no sense worrying about it,” Eliza says firmly. “If things get too out of hand, I’ll intervene. I have good practice handling my husband and if I can manage that, I can certainly manage you and your father as well.” 

John bursts into laughter. “I have no doubt that you can.” 

Eliza does her best to distract John as the arrival of his father draws steadily closer, but it’s clear he’s incredibly anxious. His mood isn’t improved by Alex, who once he learns what the cause of John’s anxiety is, sets about pacing and dramatically announcing everything he wants to say to one Henry Laurens. Eliza would let him rant--it might be good for him to get it all out before the man himself arrives--but Alex’s energy just fuels John’s nerves. Finally, Eliza is forced to exile Alex to his study and brews John some tea in a vain attempt to calm him down. 

By the time Henry Laurens’ carriage arrives, all three of them are worn thin, which isn’t ideal, but there really was no helping it. John’s hands shake as he sets his teacup down and stands to go greet his father at the door. Eliza reaches for his hand, and gives it a little squeeze, but is forced to release it quickly, for the next moment Henry Laurens is stepping from the carriage. 

Henry Laurens Sr. is a stout sour-faced older man with the most cutting blue eyes Eliza has ever beheld. His eyes immediately snap to John and they linger there. His expression is entirely unreadable for what seems to Eliza to be a very long time. Very abruptly, the spell is broken and he staggers forward, reaching for John and croaks, “Jack? My boy, is that you?” His expression is one of desperate disbelief. Eliza is predisposed to dislike this man, after hearing some of the details of John’s childhood, but in this moment, he is only a father who had grieved for his eldest son and is now reunited with him. 

John rushes forward, as if to steady his father, but he stops before they can reach each other. Both of them do, in fact, so that they are standing two feet apart, without touching. There is a stiffness to John’s posture that was noticeably absent from his reunion with Harry. There is a tense silence before John says, softly, “I’m here, sir.” 

Henry shakes his head. His expression has gone firm and rigid again, the desperate father sealed away again beneath a cruel mask. “I couldn’t believe it, when I got your first letter. If I wasn’t so familiar with your hand, I might have thought it a forgery. I thought if you were truly alive, you would have come to Mepkin right away or else written sooner. Then I learn you’ve visited your sister and collected my grandchild all before you deigned to visit me!” They are valid criticisms and ordinarily, Eliza might be inclined to agree with Henry, but his tone is scathing and the words fly like barbs. They are not meant as sincere concerns but rather as words constructed to manufacture guilt. 

Alexander tenses next to her, and Eliza reaches over to take his hand, tries to convey with a quick sideways glance that he shouldn’t get involved, not yet. Eliza sees Alexander’s jaw clench, but he remains by her side. 

John says, “Forgive me, sir. I ought to have visited with you sooner, but I had unfinished business to attend to here.” 

Henry clicks his tongue. “A weak excuse. What business have you been doing, hmm? From what you’ve told me, you’ve become a glorified servant around this house, and nothing more. You’ve done not a lick of good honest work. I hardly see how burdening these people with your presence outranks returning to your family.” 

This time, Eliza is unable to restrain her husband, and she’s not certain she would have wanted to. “Senator Laurens, I must interject.” Alexander says, and takes a step towards Henry, “John has not been and never will be a burden to the members of this household and it was I who asked him to come here after the war.”

Suddenly, Henry Laurens’ sharp eyes are on them and Eliza has to consciously fight not to tense under the intense gaze. “Alexander Hamilton, I presume,” Henry drawls, his tone flippant.

“At your service sir,” says Alexander, nodding his head in acknowledgement. “This is my wife, Eliza.” 

“Charmed,” Henry says, but his eyes just glance over Eliza, like she isn’t even there, and Eliza’s blood boils, though she keeps her temper in check and stays silent. “And tell me, Mr. Hamilton, what is it that prompted Jack to follow your suggestion that he come here rather than returning to his home and his family straightaway?”

“With all due respect sir, I can’t see how that’s any of your business,” quips Alexander, and Eliza braces herself for the inevitable retaliation. 

Henry Laurens is not a tall man, but he cuts an imposing figure and Alexander, both short and slight, is easy to tower over. He jams a thick stubby finger at Alexander’s chest. “Listen here, boy, my son was, for all I knew, dead. Worse, when I requested his body be returned to us I was met with excuses and denials. Then, I learn that my son is alive, but instead of rushing to reassure me, his father, that he’s still alive by coming to his family home straightaway, I find him gallivanting around here like a foolish school boy with no proper job and no apparent interest in one. I have a right to know what has transformed my son from the fallen hero to the good-for-nothing layabout.” By the end of his speech, Henry’s face is bright red and a vein bulges in his forehead. 

There is a beat of silence. Alexander has temporarily lost his words, trembling with rage besides Eliza. 

Henry’s gaze slides away from Alexander and he makes eye contact with Eliza, and shakes his head. “Do forgive me, ma’am. I didn’t mean to involve you or your husband in this unpleasantness. My only business here is with my son.”

“Sir,” Eliza replies, voice tight with fury. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.” 

“Of course,” Henry replies, all false pleasantness. He turns around, beckons to John. “Come, Jack, run inside and collect little Franny. We’ll speak further on the way home.” 

John doesn’t move. He is as still as a statue and as stiff as one besides. 

“Come now Jack. This is childish.” Henry says. He begins to walk past John, back towards his carriage, apparently convinced John will follow. 

John calls after him, “Mepkin is not my home. It hasn’t been since I was a child. And I am not the same boy who dreamed of dying in glory. Surely you know that. You have no hold over me, no means to force me to return with you. This is my home.” 

Eliza wants to run to John and hug him, but she restrains herself. This is John’s moment, not hers, and she won’t intercede unless he needs her help. She can see Alex grinning wide out of the corner of her eye, and knows he feels the same way. 

Henry turns, once again, to face his son. “So,” he says, “It’s true then, is it? You share a mark with this man. Does that really matter so much to you? You would destroy your legacy, your daughter’s legacy for this? You’d destroy the sanctity of this God-given marriage for your own foolish desires?” He scoffs. “Such wasted potential. I thought I could mold you into a man, but I see your stubborn pride and selfish lust has superseded any good sense you might have had.” 

Eliza has always been slow to anger. Angelica was the firecracker of the sisters and Alexander the raging fire between the two of them. Neither of them had shown her anything close to their full fury; it was always directed away from her, and towards their enemies. But Eliza is not the blushing demure housewife Henry clearly thinks she is. She is not prone to fury nor does she often give into it, but in this moment, her blood is red hot and her fists are trembling. 

“No sir,” Eliza snaps, “It is you who have wasted your potential. Your potential to be a good father to a son who loves and admires you, who has done nothing but want to please you. What is it with you men and your obsession with legacy? Is it not enough that John is smart and heroic and good? Can you not love him for who he is?” 

She takes a step towards Henry Laurens, and she can’t help but grin when his response is to take a step back. She continues to stride forward, forcing him backwards step by step, until Eliza is at John’s side and his father is very near returned to his carriage. “John, as a matter of fact, has done nothing to destroy my marriage; in fact, he has bolstered it. He is a part of my family, sir, and I would ask you to treat him with respect or else leave us and do not return. I have no patience for your baseless slander.” Her whole body is shaking with fury now; she doesn’t think she has ever been so mad, nor can she ever recall channelling her fury in this way. Shouting matches are Alexander’s wheelhouse; her’s has always been a more subtle approach. But clearly, this man will respond to nothing else. 

It is intensely gratifying to see the shock and alarm play out across Henry Laurens’ face. There is nothing quite like being underestimated and then thoroughly exceeding expectations. “Very well,” says Henry, “I can see I have overstepped my bounds.” He looks at John for a moment, but whatever he expects to see, he doesn’t find it; John’s face is smooth and cold as stone. “I shall write you Jack. I will anticipate your response.” John does not respond, and Henry turns away, disappears inside his carriage, which is soon heading away, back towards the center of town. 

‘Good riddance,’ Eliza thinks viciously. 

Alexander rushes to her side. “That, my angel, was brilliance personified,” says Alexander, once he’s finished giving her a rather searing kiss. She smiles at him, pleased, and any other time she might have lingered, but John is still staring after his father’s carriage, stock still. There are raindrops clinging to his his eyelashes, and he’s made no move to blink them away.

“John?” Eliza asks. She hadn’t been anxious before. Not about what the neighbors might think, not about the slander her family might face from one of the most wealthy men in America, but she is filled with fear now, worried she’d offended John or embarrassed him. She slips away from Alexander, approaches John slowly, worried about startling him. “Are you alright?” 

“You--” John’s voice cracks and he has to pause to swallow. “I--” He shakes his head, looking dazed. “Forgive me, that was a lot to process.” 

Eliza’s heart sinks. “Oh John, forgive me. I shouldn’t have interfered. I know how important your relationship with your father is to you.” 

“No,” John replies, looking up at her. “Eliza, that’s not what I meant. I wish I could have said more; I wish I could have had the conversation with my father that I wanted to. I’ve been a coward. Again.” 

“You haven’t,” Eliza insists, but John raises and hand and she lets him speak. 

“Eliza, I wish I was the one to say them, but you said the words I wanted to say, as if you had seen into my mind. So I can’t be cross with you. Only with myself for not saying what I wanted to, for involving you and Alex in my problems.” 

Eliza smiles. “John, you said it yourself. This is your home. We’re your family. Your problems are my problems. You don’t have to go through anything alone, not if you don’t want to.” 

John smiles back, and though his smile is weak, it’s also bright and real. 

\---

It’s about a week after his father leaves their home in a huff, and it’s a little thrill every time he so much as thinks the word their, that John works up the courage to talk to Eliza. 

Ever since that day, John’s been turning Eliza’s words over and over in his mind, and realizing they were not only exactly what he’d wanted to say but that they were what he’d needed to hear. It was like Eliza could see inside his mind and pluck out the words he wanted before they had a chance to form. John has only experienced that sensation once before so viscerally, and it was Alex that caused it. 

By now, Eliza and Alex has completely integrated John into their lives. Some days, John goes in to work with Alex, because though he’s so tired of political roadblocks and stubborn old-fashioned Southerners, the work Alex is doing is groundbreaking and John wants to be a part of it. He doesn’t mind not being the face of the movement and is happy to cede that role to Alex, but John still has his own plans that have yet to see fruition and between the two of them, John is certain they can accomplish much. The look on Alex’s face when John makes a particularly insightful suggestion makes the work more than worth it.

Other days, John stays home with Eliza, helping her watch Frances and Philip and take care of the home and garden. This, too, is fulfilling work. It’s not man’s work, as his father would no doubt insist and probably most other people besides, but it makes him happy to spend time with Eliza and Philip and he wants to spend all the time he can with his daughter. John feels like he’s getting to know her better each day and she’s a happy child which tends to bolster his mood in turn. He can take only some measure of credit for Frances’ goodness, but nevertheless, he’s proud of her. And though Philip is not his child, John is nevertheless smitten with his sweet smile and his helpless little giggles whenever he’s tickled or chased around a room. It feels good to be part of this family. 

This is one of the days John had chosen to accompany Alex, but his mind had been preoccupied all day, and Alex, ever perceptive, had noticed straight away and teased John mercilessly, asking if John had forgotten him so quickly. Their banter was normally enough to right John’s head, but this time, his brain remains stubbornly focused on his theory regarding Eliza, and he is now nearly resigned to the fact that he will have to do something about it today, or else not sleep at all tonight. 

“John?” says Alex, placing a hand on his shoulder, and with a start, John realizes Alex’s tone is such that he must have been trying to speak to John, only to ignored at least twice. 

“Are you quite well?” Alex asks, his expression pinched with worry. “You have been absent-minded all day. Are you ill or is something troubling your mind? I hope you will be honest with me when something ailes you, John.”

“I am perfectly well. There is no need to fret over me, dear boy.” John smiles, in what he hopes is an encouraging way. He hesitates. Perhaps he should open up to Alex. It would be unfortunate if he does so and then learns the answer to the question that has been plaguing his mind is ‘no’ but if he’s honest with himself, John is convinced that he will be right. “Actually, I’ve been thinking of talking to Eliza.” 

“Talking to her? About what?” 

John worries his lip between his teeth. “I—I think Eliza and I are—“ Alex’s grin is positively wolffish. “You knew,” John says, his disbelief morphing into exasperation. “Damn you, Alexander, how long have you known?” 

“I’ve known for some time,” Alex replies, laughing a little. “I suspected since you went to England.” 

“I refuse to believe it. How could you possibly know that early when I am only now coming to it?”

Alex just snickers, and refuses to elaborate. “You must speak to her right away,” is all he says, “because I have been anxiously awaiting the time you and Eliza figure it out.”

When they arrive, Alex, never one for subtlety, practically pushes John at Eliza once they arrive and calls cheerily over his shoulder, “I’ll be working in my office!” The next moment, Alex is gone and Eliza gives John a quizzical look. 

John sighs. He supposes now is a good time as any. “Eliza, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he begins, trying desperately not to fidget out of nerves. “Might we go and talk in the bedroom?”

Eliza’s expression is puzzled, but she nods in acquiescence anyway. “Of course, John. Has something happened?”

“In a way,” John hedges, “But nothing bad! Something, well, I hope it will be good.”

Eliza follows John into their bedroom with no further questions. Once they arrive, Eliza sits down on the bed and smooths out her skirt, then gestures for him to take a seat beside her. John is too nervous to sit, even at the desk. Instead, he remains standing, foot tapping in lieu of the pacing he actually wants to do. 

“Eliza. Have you...given any thought to the nature of our relationship?” 

Eliza frowns and says, gently. “I--to be frank John, I’m not entirely sure what you mean to imply, but I was under the impression your inclinations were not--”

“No!” John interjects, face flaming, “You have entirely misunderstood me. I didn’t meant to imply--I love you Eliza. But that love does not extend beyond the deepest friendship and admiration.” 

Eliza laughs. “Well, then. I’m glad to hear it. I feel the same.” 

“Right. Um. What I meant to speak with you about is...As you know, Alex isn’t my only soulmate. And I know the same is true for you.” 

Eliza nods, slowly. 

“Might we....compare our marks?” John asks, heart fluttering in his chest. 

“Boys.” Eliza says, shaking her head in fond exasperation, “Goodness, this is very near as awkward as Alex’s proposal. But yes, of course, we must! It’s on your ankle, isn’t it? Remove your boots and stockings.”

John obliges, swallowing his nerves. It seems to take him forever to do so, and when he looks up, Eliza has already dispensed with her shoes and hiked up her skirt to bare her ankle. She’s lifted her leg to cross it over the other, so that John doesn’t have to bend to look. Still, John has to stare to make out the white lines of her mark; against her pale skin, it’s nearly invisible. But it’s present and John traces the familiar lines of the seashell with his eyes. In return, he comes to sit beside her on the bed, sitting the same way so that his right ankle, and more importantly, the whelk seashell tattoo there, is clearly visible. 

“I thought so,” Eliza declares, contentedly. “We have already been a family to one another, but now, no one can doubt it.” 

John’s mind is a confusing blend of emotion. He’s overjoyed, of course, but he’s also surprised; he’d been so sure, going into this, that he and Eliza would match, and yet, there was always a lingering doubt, that perhaps he was imagining things and projecting his own love for her onto their interactions, misreading her intentions. Now, here on their skin, is irrefutable proof that they belong together. 

It’s like God is giving him the most obvious sign possible. There is no room for doubt, for wondering if he’d made a mistake coming here, all but destroying his chances of inheritance and a career in law in one fell swoop. 

Embarrassingly, he starts to cry. They’re silent tears, the sort that flow down your face in a stream. Eliza holds him close, but she doesn’t ask him if he’s okay. These are not those sort of tears. 

\---

“Knock knock!”

John turns around, task of restocking his shelves forgotten. “Alex!”

Alex stands in the doorway, hands on his hips, bright smile affixed to his face. “Do you intend to work all day? Eliza is ready for visitors.”

“Is she?” 

Alex nods, “The midwife has come and gone, and pronounced her and the child in good health. Still, if I could borrow a moment of your time, Doctor Laurens, I’d appreciate your expert opinion.”

“But of course,” John says, grinning back at Alex, and hurries through closing up shop. Alex waits for him, albeit impatiently, and the two of them run back to the house like giddy school boys. 

They’re greeted at the door by Frances, holding hands with Philip, who can walk on his own, but is still prone to tumbling over his own feet. “Papa! You’re here!”

“Of course!” John says, scooping up Frances and Philip, one in each arm. Frances is getting a little big for him to do this; she’s been growing like a weed, but he can’t resist, not when it causes both children to break out into great peals of laughter. “Did you hold down the fort for me, my little soldier?” 

“Yep,” Frances chirps. “Philip was naughty, and didn’t want to eat his dinner, but I think he was just worried about Eliza.”

“Were you naughty, young man?” Alex asks. 

“No,” says Philip giggling. 

Alex opens his arms and John passes Philip over to him. “Are we sure?” Alex asks, ticking Philip’s ribs. 

“No!” Philip cries, breathless with laughter, “Papa! No!” 

Frances wiggles in John’s arms. “Papa, you’re making Eliza wait! She really wanted to see you.” 

“Oops, we can’t have that,” John says, smiling, and sets Frances down. “I’ll go visit, then.” 

Eliza is in the bedroom, reclining on her veritable mountain of pillows. The new baby is in her arms and as John approaches, he sees that the baby’s asleep. Eliza looks up, looking drained but happy. 

“Welcome home, John,” she says, smiling at him, “Come meet little Angie.” 

John steps over to the side of the bed and Eliza hands off the baby. Angie’s angelic in sleep, and as crazy as it seems, John can already see Eliza in the slope of her nose and the shape of her lips. 

“She’s beautiful,” John says, stroking Angie’s tiny curled fist with a finger. 

“Thank you,” Eliza says, “I’m very happy she’s here.” 

“Me too,” John says, cheeks warm with the smile glued there. He hands the baby back to Eliza and presses a kiss to her cheek. “I’m happy you’re doing well.”

The children and Alex clatter into the room, Philip chattering about wanting to see the baby, Alex and Frances trying to placate him. 

In the end, it turns into Alex sitting at the desk with Philip in his lap while Philip holds Angie, helping Philip to cradle the baby’s head. Eliza watches, smiling, and Frances hovers right next to Alex, ready for her turn with the baby. John’s heart is full, watching them. 

He’s done what he’d never thought was possible. He has a family. Two soulmates, three children he loves with his whole heart. He has a job he loves doing work he finds fulfilling instead of draining. He’s so far outside the path his father had designed for him since he was a boy and it’s liberating. Most of all, he’s found people he can come home to, everyday, for the rest of his life. He’s come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering why this story ends with John as a doctor, it's actually what he wanted to do. When he was young, he wanted to go to medical school, and showed a lot of interest in anatomical drawings and the like. Thus, his famous drawing of a turtle. So, for his happy ending, I thought it was only fitting that he changed his career as well. Though John was obviously a skilled politician, he wasn't always happy, and I can't blame him, given that he was mostly working with rich, white, racist Southerners. He is still a part of political circles because of his continued work as an abolitionist, though, because there's no way he would give up on that. 
> 
> I'm blown away by and so happy about the response to this fic. Thank you to all my readers!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This fic has been a work in progress for a long time and it's my first time publishing and finishing a multi-chaptered fic. 
> 
> Next time: Alex mourns his loss, Eliza makes a friend, and John sails across the sea.


End file.
